Dark Mirror
by Esther Kirkland
Summary: We've all seen The Reichenbach Fall. We know what happened. We know how Moriarty decided to "burn" Sherlock. But what if he had chosen a different way? What if he had decided to really burn Sherlock's 'heart? What might it have looked like? Well…Maybe something like this. "Reversed Reichenbach". NO SLASH. Rated for brief mentions of drugs and potential violence to come.
1. Prologue

Dark Mirror

_Prologue:_

"Sherlock Holmes!"

Mycroft's strident voice punctured the silence of 221b and jerked Sherlock from his contemplation of the morphine syringe that lay on the table before him, capped and in a plastic bag. He reached to sweep the incriminating evidence under a pile of newspaper, but his brother was too quick. Scooping up the needle—pilfered from St. Barts, he had no doubt—Mycroft shook it in Sherlock's face.

"This is _not_ reasonable, Sherlock!" he snapped. His face was hard and his lips set in a tight line. "You know better—you _learned _better, years ago. Or so I thought."

Sherlock spread his hands as if to say _I don't know what you're going on about_, and sat back on the couch, feigning nonchalance. Mycroft sighed, looked at the evidence of Sherlock's desperation, and dropped the offending object into his coat pocket.

"You know what John would say about this," he said.

Sherlock refused to look up. "Yes, well," he said, clearing his throat. "That's rather the point, now isn't it?" He stood, unfolding to his full height, and straightened the rumpled button-down shirt he wore under his dressing gown. "And I will point out that it has obviously _not_ been used."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, and Sherlock sighed. "Why are you here?" he asked, stepping around his brother and disappearing into the small kitchen.

Mycroft turned to follow him with his gaze, and took a seat in Sherlock's armchair. "I came to check on you," he answered. "You haven't left Baker Street in weeks."

Sherlock smirked at his brother over the top of a tea canister. "That _you've_ seen."

Mycroft's hand went to the small bulge in his coat pocket. "Yes," he admitted. "That I've seen."

Sherlock began to rifle through the kitchen—a mess at the best of times and now looking as if a small tornado had ripped through—for clean cups to use.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade called me today," Mycroft said, raising his voice to be heard. He leaned back and gazed at the ceiling, wondering if he even wanted to know what the dark smudge above his head consisted of. "He said you've turned down three cases in the last month. He's worried about you, believe it or not. Aren't you getting tired of sitting around, Sherlock? Doing nothing but—"

A thunderous crash yanked Mycroft to his feet, but he had to duck just as fast, to avoid the teacup aimed at his head. Sherlock stood in the center of a puddle of tea and broken crockery, his face livid with rage. He was panting, and his steel-grey eyes blazed.

"I don't want to _think!_" he shouted, hurling the second teacup at Mycroft. The elder Holmes dodged, and it shattered against the wall behind him. "I don't want to _think_, I don't want to _remember_—I don't want to see everything playing in front of my mind like a movie I can't turn off!"

"Sherlock—"

"The one time it really _mattered_," the lanky young detective continued, stalking toward Mycroft and clenching his fists, "The _one time_ I really needed to think, needed to figure it out—I failed. I missed clues so obvious a child could have—"

"Sherlock." Mycroft halted his brother's tirade with an upraised hand. "You did everything you could."

Sherlock stared at him, a muscle in his jaw pulsing with tension. Mycroft, usually immune to his brother's 'moods,' had to suppress the urge to step back. "You did everything you could," he repeated.

It was as if the words cut through the puppeteer's strings holding Sherlock upright. He wilted, all of the fire and energy sapped out of him in a long sigh. He sank into the armchair across from Mycroft—John's chair—and massaged his temples with long, white, trembling fingers.

"That's the worst of it, you know," he said, his voice now so low that Mycroft had to strain to hear. "I did _everything_ I possibly could…And I still failed. If I could have just _thought _a little faster, made connections in just a fraction less time…"

Mycroft Holmes, so unused to feeling much besides irritation, calculation, and satisfaction, felt his heart soften. This man—his little brother—suddenly shrank from a masterful young man into a grieving little boy. Mycroft opened his mouth as if to say something—but then closed it, and let out a long sigh through his nose.

"No one blames you for any of this, Sherlock," he said at last. His brother looked up sharply, and Mycroft inclined his head. "No one but yourself. However, personal regrets aside, I cannot allow you to continue holing yourself up in your flat for weeks on end. Ah—" he held up a forestalling hand, and Sherlock bit back his protests. "I know you don't want to work with the Yard just yet. There is a position available on my staff and I think it might interest you. You would be tracking the cyber trails of Moriarty's gang."

Mycroft, as skilled as his brother at following someone's train of thought through their facial expression and other cues (even if he wasn't quite so _brazen_ about his gift), knew the exact moment when Sherlock decided.

"I'm interested," the dark-haired detective said. He stood and tugged his shirt straight.

"Good."

"Under one condition."

"Yes?"

Sherlock's face, so open a second before, turned as hard and expressionless as a concrete wall. "I will follow the trail, but when the chase ends—I make the kill."

Mycroft examined his brother for a long moment, scrutinizing the younger Holmes' face as if looking for something in particular. Finally satisfied, he nodded.

"Agreed."

Sherlock cracked a feral smile. "Wonderful. Let's go." He scooped a jacket from the table and headed for the door, grabbing up his scarf and coat as he went.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "Now?"

Sherlock didn't even wait to see if his brother was following him. "Now," he called over his shoulder, starting down the stairs. "The sooner we start, the sooner I can rid the world of John Watson's killer.

_...To be Continued..._


	2. Three Months Earlier

_Chapter One: Three Months Earlier_

"What are you calling this one?"

Sherlock leaned over John's shoulder and peered at the computer screen, nearly spilling his mug of coffee. John shrugged.

"_The Hounds of Baskerville,_" he said. "Couldn't think of a really good name for this one. Decided to go with the obvious."

"Hm." Sherlock backed away and settled into his armchair, flicking open the morning paper and sipping his drink. For a few moments, there was silence in the flat as John reread through his blog entry and Sherlock examined the paper.

"Bored."

John sighed and turned around. "It's not even ten o'clock, Sherlock."

Sherlock tossed the paper on the floor and waved a hand in the air. "As if I can _help_ what time the world decides to be boring."

"You need a hobby."

"I have a hobby."

"Something that doesn't involve explosives, cadavers or questionable chemical compounds would be a nice change." John returned his attention to his computer and hit _'create new post.'_

"There," he said, standing and snapping the laptop shut. "Well, I'm off to work. Text if you need anything."

Sherlock, staring at the ceiling, said nothing. John shook his head and left to get his coat and keys, smiling a little. It was like living with a twelve-year-old, sometimes. Only this twelve-year-old was allowed to go places by himself and get into situations that any normal kid would be hard pressed to even imagine. Then again, he doubted that Sherlock had ever been what one would consider a 'normal' kid.

Just as he was opening the door that led out of 221b and into the street, Sherlock's voice shouted down the stairs.

"John!"

"Yeah?"

Sherlock's curly head poked around the corner at the top of the steps. "Lestrade just texted. Body in a parking garage."

"Good. Lovely. Have fun." John tugged open the door.

"What—not coming with me?"

John laughed. "Sherlock, I just took a week's leave to go to Dartmoor. I can't ask someone to cover for me today."

"Ah..." Sherlock's growl of frustration was almost comical. "You and your principles. Fine. I'll see you tonight."

"Right, then. Bye." And with that, John walked out the door and into the bright morning sunshine. He felt slightly disappointed that he couldn't follow Sherlock, but honestly—he had a job. A job he'd prefer to keep, thank you very much. Besides, he'd be sure to get all the gory details from Sherlock this evening. Probably over dinner.

He made a mental note to pick up something that didn't involve red sauce.

* * *

"What do we have?"

Lestrade looked up from a clipboard he was signing as Sherlock swept into the half-empty parking garage.

"Homicide," he said. "Jeremy Ovington. Stockbroker. No romantic connections that we can see, no problems at work." He shrugged and jerked the pen over his shoulder, pointing Sherlock in the direction of the body. "Seems a decent enough bloke."

"Mm. They all do after they're dead," Sherlock said, brushing past. He strode to the prostrate figure on the concrete floor. Crouching low to examine the body, he asked, "Weapon?"

"Nowhere to be seen."

Sherlock grunted and took in all the details he could before touching anything. _Mid-forties. Worked out once—maybe twice a week. Laugh lines around eyes, well-liked, but no close connections. Private sort. Dyed his hair—vain. Hmm…_ He picked up the man's arm and examined the watch. _Expensive watch—sports brand, stainless steel, red face. Bit showy. No jewelry though, a man's man. Right handed, clean nails…what's this?_

"Did you see this?" Sherlock pointed at the tiny puncture wound in the man's forefinger.

Lestrade came over and bent down to squint. "Nah, we didn't. Autopsy usually catches that sort of thing. What is it?"

"Looks like an injection site," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Or he could have just stabbed himself with a pin." Dropping the arm, he reached out and lifted one of the dead man's eyelids.

"Nope, definitely injected with something. Ophilemene, to judge by the inflammation in the eyes." He let the eyelid drop and looked up at Lestrade. "He may not have even been conscious when he died. They drugged him, brought him here, and shot him."

"Who?"

Sherlock shrugged and stood. "Don't know yet. Where did he work?"

"Kentworthy and Ovington. Private stock consultants. The address is online." Lestrade glanced over his shoulder at the other members of the force, bustling around taking pictures and scribbling on clipboards. "But you didn't hear that from me."

Sherlock's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "Mum's the word," he agreed.

Lestrade shook his head as Sherlock whipped out of the room in a flurry of dark hair and coat. "You know," the detective inspector said conversationally to the lifeless Jeremy Ovington, watching Sherlock leave, "Sometimes I think Donavan might be right—he likes this too much."

Then he looked down at the body. "Then again, _I'm_ the one talking to stiffs, so who am I to judge Sherlock Holmes' sanity?"

Jeremy Ovington said nothing, but Lestrade decided that it was a point well made, and went back to his report.


	3. Magic Bullet

_Chapter Two: Magic Bullet_

John was leaving the office when his phone buzzed. Digging it out of his pocket, he waved a distracted goodnight to the receptionist and glanced at the screen, expecting to see a shopping list from Sherlock or a request to pick up something from Molly Hooper before he came home. Instead, it was simply a street address, someplace on the Strand, and three words: _Meet me here_.

John rubbed the back of his neck and gave a little groan. Eight hours of work and now Sherlock wanted him to tag along on some investigative caper instead of going home to dinner and that new thriller he had picked up two days ago?

He grinned and hailed a cab. Sherlock knew him well.

* * *

When he arrived at the address Sherlock had texted him, he wasn't surprised to see the flashing red and blue lights of police cars parked outside the small office—a brick building with white trim and the name of the company in tasteful letters above the door. What did surprise him was that Sherlock wasn't inside. Rather, he waited, pacing back and forth in front of one of the squad cars, his hands buried in his pockets and his face thoughtful.

"Anything interesting?" John asked, crossing the street and joining his friend.

Sherlock looked up at him and blinked, returning to earth. "John. No, nothing. That's the problem."

He began walking down the sidewalk away from the office, and John followed as streetlights began to flicker on above their heads.

"How is that a problem?"

"Even in the most murky of crimes, there's always some sort of indication, some sort of clue, as to the motive." Sherlock shook his head, as if trying to settle his thoughts in place. "But this one…"

"Maybe it was random."

"There is no such thing as a truly random occurrence, John," Sherlock snapped. "Everything has at least some reason, some…purpose. Even if he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time…What sort of casual killer manages to drug his victim by injecting them in the hand?"

"In the hand?"

"Yes. The body. Jeremy Ovington was drugged by someone who first injected ophilemene into his blood stream through his fingertip."

"Ophilemene—that's a pretty rare drug." John tucked his hands into his coat pockets. It was getting chilly. "Taken intravenously, that would knock him out pretty quick."

"Yes. And then he was taken to the parking garage and shot. One bullet to the head—and he may not have even been conscious for the execution. We won't know until after the autopsy."

John shook his head. "And maybe not even then. Ophilemene hasn't been fully tested—technically, it's not approved for use except on animals. They may not be able to create a timeline based on the amounts still in the body." He glanced around. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock stopped and looked about. "No clue, really. I needed to walk." He squinted up at a street sign and nodded toward it. "There's a café three blocks down. Coffee?"

"Definitely."

* * *

Over sandwiches and cardboard cups of steaming caffeine, Sherlock gave John a rundown of what he knew. It wasn't much.

"OK, well, what are the normal motives for crime?" John asked. "Greed, passion, hate…that about covers everything, doesn't it?"

Sherlock stared out the window into the deepening London night. "Nothing was stolen. As far as we can tell, he had no lovers, and no enemies. Man was as bland as a slice of white bread."

"So…no greed—nothing stolen—and no crimes of passion or anger…" John shrugged. "We must be missing something. Something pretty big."

"Something person-sized," Sherlock agreed. "There's no way this man didn't have any close connections—they must simply be deeply hidden."

John nodded, and the two men fell silent in the corner of the café, while around them, other patrons laughed and talked in the rosy glow of red-shaded lights. There was music playing softly—something classical—and the smells of coffee and baking bread created a warm atmosphere. John, the long day finally catching up to him, could feel his eyes starting to droop.

"What did he look like?" he asked suddenly, startling himself awake.

"Hm? Oh." Sherlock scooped his phone off the table, thumbed into his picture file, and slid the device across the table.

John picked it up, and did a double take. "What the—Oh."

Sherlock was on instant alert. "What?"

Shaking his head, John passed the phone back. "Nothing. I thought for a second I knew him. But it's just a resemblance. Looks a bit like a fellow in my old unit."

"Ah." Sherlock took his phone back and started to slip it into his pocket. It chirped.

"Lestrade?" John asked, as Sherlock checked the text.

"Indeed." The lanky detective sounded intrigued. "There's a second crime scene."

"And…it has something in common with—"

"With Jeremy Ovington, yes." Sherlock stood, gathering his coat from where it hung over the back of the chair. "Coming?"

John checked the clock on the wall. It was only eight thirty. "Wouldn't miss it."

They left the café, taking a cab to the second crime scene, halfway across town. Lestrade met them at the edge of the taped-off area, a graffiti-covered road overpass.

"Two bodies this time," he said, holding up the tape so that Sherlock and John could duck under. "Homeless. Kid came down here on a dare and got the scare of his life."

John spotted a teenager standing by one of the squad cars, talking to an officer. "Anyone you know?" he asked Sherlock.

The tall detective spared the kid one glance. "No."

Lestrade led them to a place mostly in shadow under the bridge, where two bodies lay on the rough gravel. John pressed his lips together. As many crime scenes as he visited with Sherlock, and as much as he had seen overseas, he never got used to death. He hoped he never would.

"Prints say this is Wilson Adams and Helen Nash," Lestrade said. "Both had records of vagrancy and petty theft. Neither one was known to be violent."

Kneeling next to the bodies, Sherlock examined the hands of each. "Same injection mark as Jeremy Ovington," he announced. "These deaths are linked."

Lestrade nodded. "We saw that. Probably would have come out in the coroner's report, but I'm glad you had us looking."

"Wait," John interjected as Sherlock stood and rejoined them. "Linked? Are you saying we may have another serial—"

"Stop." Lestrade glanced back at the other officers. None of them had been close enough to hear. "It may be looking that way, but we don't use those words until we have to. The _last_ thing we need is the press in on this." He said 'press' as if it were a curse word.

"We need the ballistics report on the gun used," Sherlock said. "See if we can't trace it to the owner."

Lestrade shrugged. "Easier said than done. You left too quickly earlier, before we found it."

"Found what?" Sherlock cocked his head. "The weapon?"

"No. I suppose I should say, you left before we _didn't_ find it." Lestrade lowered his voice. "There was no bullet."

"But he was shot—oh." Comprehension dawned on Sherlock's face. "Bullet went clean through."

"Which isn't so unusual, but here's the weird part: there's no bullet anywhere in that garage."

"Someone went to the trouble of finding it and removing it from the scene." John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "What do you want to bet that these two will be the same?"

Sherlock was already walking away. "John, go on back to Baker Street," he threw back over his shoulder. "I'll be in late."

John and Lestrade exchanged glances. "You're not just leaving," the DI called.

"That I am, Lestrade. As ever, your observations are astounding."

And with that, Sherlock Holmes ducked under the crime-scene tape and was gone.

"I wish he wouldn't do that," John muttered. Lestrade sighed.

"You and me both."


	4. Good News and Bad News

**A/N: **There's a bit of London geography in this one, as well as some forensics science regarding guns and ballistics. Both of these aspects were researched to the best of my abilities, but if anyone spots anything completely out of left field, do please let me know.

* * *

It had been nearly three months since John's last nightmare. He had almost managed to forget the feeling of sick horror they left in his stomach, or the sticky sheen of sweat that coated his back and face. At least this time he had woken on his own, and in his bed, rather than shouting himself awake or being shaken back to reality by his half-irritated, half-concerned flatmate.

It was only six o'clock, and he didn't have to be at the surgery until one. He _had_ hoped to sleep in, after being out so late the night before. But the thought of going back to sleep now, after a dream like that—no thank you. The thing he hated worst about the nightmares was the complete lack of control. Awake, he could protect himself, he could understand the situation. Awake, he was alright.

He was making coffee when Sherlock came in.

"Out already?" John asked, dropping two sugar cubes into a mug and passing it to his flatmate. Sherlock took the drink with a nod and plopped down in his armchair.

"I spoke with a few of my 'homeless network,' as you have dubbed them," he said, as John popped a lid onto his thermos. "I wanted to see if any of them knew Helen Nash or Wilson Adams."

"And?"

"Mm. No luck." Sherlock sipped the coffee and set it down with a slightly-irritated thunk. "A few of them knew who they were, but not why they would be dead under a bridge."

"Anything else to go on?"

"Not yet."

Sherlock had posted pictures from the two crime scenes in a sort of collage around the edges of the mirror that hung over the fireplace—it was his usual method of keeping all his notes in one place until he had a chance to file them away in the binders he kept in his room. Once, John had made the mistake of taking down some of the notes after a case had been closed, thinking he was helping his flatmate out a bit. Two lectures and a day of sulking later, he knew better.

Now, he stepped closer to the collection of photos and hastily-scribbled notes, examining them without touching. He paused at the picture of Helen Nash. "There was this woman in my unit," he mused aloud. "Private Lily Williams. She cornered me into a game of checkers one day and beat me thirteen games out of twenty."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "And you're telling me this…why?"

John blinked. "Uh…no reason, I guess. Something reminded me, that's all." Shaking his head, he stepped away from the wall and dropped into his chair, flicking on the television. _Talk show, morning news, kids' cartoon, more talk shows…_

"Nightmares?"

John's thumb paused over the channel changer and looked over at his friend. "Is it obvious?" he sighed.

Sherlock's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "Only to someone who knows what to look for."

John rolled his eyes. "Great." But it was comforting, somehow, that someone knew—knew, and didn't judge him for it, or think him weak.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sherlock staring up at his notes and John watching the morning news report. There was a bit about the murder of Jeremy Ovington, but nothing about the two homeless victims. It irritated John—after all, Nash and Adams had been people too, probably with friends and family left to mourn.

There was a knock at the door.

"I'll get it," John offered, standing. He crossed the room and opened the door to find Greg Lestrade standing on the other side.

"Sorry to bother," the DI said, glancing over John's shoulder at Sherlock, who stood. "I'm on my way to a scene. Want to come with?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Is it connected?"

"It is."

"I wouldn't miss it." He scooped up his coat and began to put it on.

John glanced at the clock. "How far?"

"Kensington Gardens," the DI replied. "West side."

"Well, I don't have to be at work until after noon," John said. "Mind if I tag along?"

"Please do." Sherlock brushed past both John and Lestrade, calling back, "I'll get a cab, Lestrade. We'll meet you there."

As John grabbed his jacket, Lestrade muttered, "One of these days I will get him in a squad car—just so I can say I _did_."

* * *

"There's bad news, and there's good news. And then there's more good news—what do you want first?"

Sherlock was crouched over the body of 28-year-old Thomas Shore, looking rather like a vulture in a coat and scarf, to John's imagination. The dark-haired detective spared a glance for Lestrade. "Does it make a difference?"

"Probably not. Bad news first then." He bent over and pointed at the right hand of the blonde-haired victim—John thought the boy hardly old enough to be out of school, let alone dead. "Thomas Shore. Age: 28, occupation: waiter at a nightclub. Same injection wound—my people are checking every stiff they find for these now. I think there's some kind of betting pool on it."

Sherlock smirked, and slipped a hand into the victim's pocket, withdrawing a scrap of paper and squinting at it. "And the good news?"

"Hold on—I'm not finished with the bad, yet." Lestrade stood up, speaking to John. "No family, no close friends—this guy could had vanished for weeks and no one would have noticed."

John shook his head. "Just like Ovington and the two homeless victims," he said. "Except…they _were_ found."

"Yeah. It's like the killer is picking people no one will really care about, but putting them places we'll be sure to find. Parking garage, a public park…even under that bridge—kids go down there all the time. Someone would have found them."

"Alright, well…" John peered over Sherlock's shoulder at the body. "Give us some good news?"

"There was a bullet this time."

Sherlock stood. "A bullet?"

"Yeah." Lestrade smiled proudly. "My boys in the crime lab ID-d the gun used. It's a SIG-Sauer. Standard issue all over the States, and several of our own military branches use it."

John felt his heart skip a beat. Sherlock stepped over the body and grabbed Lestrade by the shoulders; the look in his eye might have frightened a lesser man. "A SIG-Sauer?" he demanded. "You're certain."

"Well…yeah." Lestrade took a step back. "That's what they determined in the lab. I don't understand all the specifics—that's what we've got them for, but Sherlock—"

Detective Inspector Lestrade had worked with Sherlock Holmes for a long time—long enough to know when something had clicked in that fantastical mind. But even now—even after having worked with Sherlock for years—he couldn't have understood the meaning-laden look that the lanky detective shot John Watson.

The doctor did, though, and nodded sharply. "Right, yeah—" he said, and swallowed.

"Listen, John, are you alright?" Lestrade asked, concern in his voice. He looked from Sherlock to John and back. "What's going on?"

"I'm fine—fine." John managed. He waved a hand vaguely. "I'll…I'll just be going then. Have to be at work in…four hours. Better, uh…better get back." Turning swiftly, he walked away, over the green and toward the road.

He had to get back to the flat.

* * *

Sherlock watched his friend go, his brow furrowed in thought, and then shook his head. He turned back to Lestrade. "And the other good news?"

"What?" Lestrade was highly confused, but he shook his head sharply and brought his mind back to the case. "Oh—right. Good news. Well, other than one bullet, we still don't have fingerprints, DNA, or anything else to link anyone to the crimes. Except this."

He pulled out his cell phone and thumbed open his picture file. "See? We missed it on Ovington—had to go back and look. But it was there—scratched onto the wall. And Nash and Adams had it scribbled onto the concrete above them."

It was list of eight numbers: 97683415. It seemed random, but Sherlock knew better. He held out the slip of paper he had retrieved from the body. It held the same series of numbers. "This was in his pocket."

"Those numbers mean anything to you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, and a series of images passed in front of his imagination. _No…no…perhaps—no, never mind…no…ridiculous…no…highly unlikely…never…no…_ "Not yet."

"Well, if you get anything, let me know."

"Always." Sherlock slipped his hands into his pockets. "Is that all?"

"No. One more thing." The DI closed out the pictures and pulled up a sound file. "Came in at about five this morning—from a pay phone."

"_I just saw something weird,_" a male voice said. Sherlock frowned. That voice…it sounded familiar… "_There was this guy in Kensington Park. He was acting all weird, like he didn't want anyone, you know, seeing him. And he was hiding something in his pocket. Um…he was blonde and kind of short and, uh…he was wearing a black coat—it had leather patches on it. I remember thinking it was kind of a cool coat, but that the guy was weird."_

"_What do you mean by weird?"_ the officer on the line asked.

"_Like, he was sneaking along, trying to stay out of the light, and he kept looking over his shoulder. Like one of those guys you see on the news—like the soldiers going into terrorist's houses and stuff."_

Lestrade clicked the file off. "The officer tried to get his name, but he hung up. What do you think?"

Sherlock was staring into space. That voice…not the speaking pattern, not the pitch…but something about the voice itself nagged at his memory. And what the voice said, combined with the model of the gun…

"I think," he said slowly, "I need a little family time."

* * *

John's hands were firm as he unlocked the door to 221B, but he felt as if they ought to be shaking. Up the stairs and past the living room, up another flight and into his bedroom. He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and stared down at the object hidden inside.

His gun. It was there, and it hadn't been moved—he ought to know, he checked it often enough, out of fear that Sherlock might have borrowed it for who-knew-what. He breathed a sigh of relief and shut the drawer.

His gun. His _illegally owned_ gun. His illegally owned gun that Mycroft had pulled some strings to allow him to keep—under the radar, of course. The idea that some serial killer was out there, running around with the same model of gun as the one that hid in John's desk drawer was not one he wanted to dwell on—but at least it was only the same model, not the actual gun. For a second, there at the crime scene, he had been sure…

He pulled out his phone and sent Sherlock a quick text: _It's still here. -JW_

Something rattled downstairs.

John tensed, and cocked his head to listen. Someone was in the kitchen—he could hear them clattering around with dishes. Sherlock? No—Sherlock had sent him back to check on the gun. He would know that John would be on high alert, and would have shouted when he came in.

Someone was in the flat.

Creeping as quietly as he could, avoiding the squeaky third step down and keeping close to the wall, John slipped down the stairs, his pistol palmed and at the ready. Adrenaline pulsed in his head, and he breathed slowly, trying to ignore the faint scent of dust and sweat that his mind told him he could smell but which he knew wasn't really there.

The door to the living room was open, but the one that led into the kitchen was shut. John slipped through the doorway into the living room, keeping his back against the wall and craning his neck to catch a glimpse into the kitchen in the reflections of the framed pictures on the shelf beside the window. He could see something moving...but not enough to tell who or what it was.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped around the corner, bringing up the gun in one smooth motion.

Jim Moriarty looked up from the cup of tea he was stirring. "Hi," he warbled with a toothy grin. "Sugar?"

* * *

**Secondary A/N:** The serial number I gave John came from a quick Google search, which turned up some fan-made dog tags. If you Google the number, that's all that turns up. Didn't want to accidentally involve some innocent soldier... :)


	5. Debts Owed

"Sherlock," Mycroft Holmes looked up from his desk and slipped off a pair of reading glasses. "I'm glad you stopped by."

"And here I thought this was my idea," Sherlock said, taking a seat in the chair across from his brother.

"You have good timing. I was going to call you this evening." The elder Holmes folded away the dossier of papers he had been reading and slipped them into the desk. "But that can wait—why have you come to see me? Surely this isn't just a friendly visit."

"Hardly." Sherlock didn't _quite_ roll his eyes—but only just. "With you, dear brother, there _are_ no friendly visits. No, I'm here about a case."

"Really, now?" Mycroft leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. "Something too much for you?"

Sherlock allowed himself a tiny smirk. Honestly, dueling with his brother was almost as entertaining as invading crime scenes. "On the wrong track again. I need any information you may have on the murders of Jeremy Ovington, Helen Nash, Wilson Adams, and Thomas Shore."

"They're connected?"

Sherlock nodded. "Each was injected with ophilemene, killed with a SIG-Sauer pistol, and an eight-digit number was left on or near each body."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "A SIG-Sauer? Isn't that what—"

"Yes." Sherlock didn't let him finish. No sense in saying it out loud—Mycroft may have been the nation's preeminent spymaster, but that didn't mean that there weren't other ears listening. "But it's not his."

"Hm. What about the number? Anything special?"

This was why Sherlock wanted to talk to his brother. As much as they nagged and bickered, he respected Mycroft's intelligence highly—if the man would get out of the office every once in a while, Sherlock might have found his job at risk. As it was, he would sometimes bring purely mental puzzles to Mycroft in hopes that the government man could unravel something he had missed.

"Nothing yet. But that's not all." He recounted for Mycroft the call describing the supposed suspect.

"I see." Mycroft pursed his lips in thought. "Give me a moment…" he turned to his computer and tapped away at the keyboard for a few minutes. "What was that series of numbers, again?"

"Why?" Sherlock sat forward and tried to see around the edge of the computer screen, but Mycroft waved him back. Sherlock glared, and then shrugged. "97683415," he recited from memory, and watched as his brother's long fingers tapped them in to whatever system he was accessing.

Mycroft's eyes skimmed over the information on the screen, and he sat back with a grim look. "I was afraid of that," he said, his voice low.

"Mycroft." Sometimes, Sherlock wanted to strangle Mycroft. And sometimes he wanted to tie him to a chair and slowly remove his fingernails.

The elder Holmes waved a hand at the screen. "That's John's army serial number," he said. "If you'd ever seen his dog tags, you would know."

Sherlock cursed. "John's gun, John's number, a description of a suspicious individual that matches John…Someone is playing with us."

"And who do you think that might be?"

It wasn't really a question, Sherlock knew.

"You think this is Moriarty?" He sat back, steepling his hands, and stared at his brother. Mycroft shrugged.

"He swore he'd come back."

"If this _is_ Moriarty…what's his motive? Why target John?"

"I don't know." Mycroft shook his head. "But it makes me wonder a bit more about what I was going to call you about."

"And just what is that?"

* * *

John stared down the barrel of his pistol at Jim Moriarty, unable to believe what he was seeing.

"What," he demanded, making an effort to keep his voice flat, "Are you doing in my flat?"

"Making tea—what does it look like? Now, do you take sugar?" Moriarty's eyes were wide and guileless, and he held up the sugar bowl. "No? Well, then, I guess we can sit."

He set down the sugar bowl and lifted the small tray, on which was placed two cups and saucers full of steaming tea, along with the teapot. "Lead the way, Dr. Watson."

Dazed, John took a step back, still holding the gun at the level of Moriarty's eyes.

"The last time I saw you," he managed, "You tried to blow me up. And now you're making tea? In my _flat_?"

"Life's funny, isn't it, Johnny-boy?" Jim Moriarty stepped past John, carrying the tea tray, and set it down on the small table beside John's armchair. "Do sit."

"What's to stop me shooting you right now?" John demanded, the shock beginning to fade and anger taking its place. "You killed people—the world would be a better place."

Moriarty shrugged and took a seat—in Sherlock's chair. "You'd go to jail," he said, seeming nonchalant. He glanced at the gun, though—just a flick of motion, but John saw it.

"I think it might be worth it." John stared into Moriarty's cold, dark eyes—shark eyes, he thought—and felt the gun grow steady in his hands.

"Doctor, you don't want to do this." For the first time, there was a hint of worry in Moriarty's tone. "You wouldn't last in jail, Dr. Watson—John—John, put down the gun."

"I don't think so." John flicked off the safety.

"You won't kill me," Moriarty pleaded. "You're a good man, John Watson. You don't want something like this on your conscience—killing a man in cold blood?"

John knew he ought to feel something like pity or regret—this was, after all, a human life. But all he felt was a sharp sort of satisfaction. Remembering children and old women strapped to bombs and the echoing sound of Moriarty's mocking laugher in the pool the night that John and Sherlock had nearly died…His jaw tightened.

"I'm pretty sure it'll be worth it."

Moriarty's eyes widened. John sighted down the barrel, aiming right between those dead eyes.

He pulled the trigger.

_Click_.

All traces of fear wiped from Moriarty's face like makeup off a clown. "Gotcha," he smiled. "It's a pretty little replica, isn't it? Had it special ordered, just for you. Merry Christmas."

John blinked, and he looked down at the supposedly-deadly weapon in his grip. _A fake._

"Well, after all," Moriarty said, sipping his tea, "I couldn't exactly have you noticing that I'd stolen the real one. Not until it was matched to the gun from the murders, anyway. Do sit, John."

John, suddenly weak at the knees, sank into his chair. "You…you're setting me up for murder?"

"Of course." Moriarty smirked over the edge of his teacup. "You ordinary people are so adorable when someone outsmarts you. Do stop gaping—it makes you look like a fish."

John snapped his jaw shut and tried to put a blank expression on his face. "Why me?"

The criminal mastermind set the cup back on the saucer with a soft _clink_. "Many reasons, Dr. Watson," he said. His tone was suddenly businesslike—all traces of the playful innocence of a moment before vanishing. John shuddered at how quickly this man changed faces. "Don't take offense. It's not really personal, you know—not for you, anyway."

"Yeah, well, I have this odd feeling it's going to _get_ personal," John snapped back. He was recovering his wits now. The feeling of discovering a spider under the object you just picked up, the feeling of sudden horror that takes your stomach and twists it into a knot was fading. "What with my being framed for murder and all."

Moriarty shook his head. "Don't be mad at _me, _Dr. Watson," he said. "It's Sherlock who's to blame. This is for his benefit after all."

"_What_," John bit out, "is all for his benefit?"

"This whole scenario. It's beautiful, isn't it?" Moriarty leaned forward, an eager gleam in his eye. "I can see the newspaper articles now: John Watson, sidekick to the infamous detective Sherlock Holmes, has snapped. PTSD—he's got a record. Poor man killed five people before they could stop him, and Sherlock Holmes did everything in his power to cover his friend's tracks. The man is little more than a criminal himself, covering up murders like that."

John was halfway out of his seat—and six inches away from beating Jim Moriarty's brains out with the stupid replica gun—before something the man had said registered.

"Five?" he demanded. "There's only been four."

Moriarty grinned. "Whoops. My mistake."

Jim Moriarty didn't make mistakes. Everything he did was calculated and precisely timed. He had probably known exactly what John would do even before he did it.

Someone else was going to die.

John stared at the man in front of him, chilled by the pure evil—unadulterated, mad evil—that seeped from Moriarty's entire attitude. The clock in the kitchen ticked, and each tiny sound fell like a hammer in the silence.

"Do you even know?" Moriarty asked softly, his voice barely louder than John's own heartbeat, throbbing in his ears. "Do you even know how _valuable_ you are to me?"

"What?"

"I have a problem I need to solve, Dr. Watson," Moriarty said. He set his teacup down on the table and stood, straightening his jacket. John watched him warily, the way one might watch a wasp buzzing around the room. Walking to the larger table between the windows, the criminal mastermind toyed with some of Sherlock's equipment that lay out in disorganized piles. "What you might call…the final problem. I told you once, but since you were rather…tied up at the moment," he looked down at John and grinned, his teeth gleaming in the low light, "I don't really expect you to remember."

"What does this have to do with me?" John asked. His hand clenched and unclenched on the fake gun, and he could feel the sweat on his palms.

"I owe a debt," Moriarty said, turning from his idle fidgeting with Sherlock's things and looking John dead-on. "I owe Sherlock a very large debt. I made him a promise, you see, and I haven't made good on it yet."

"You promised to burn him, yeah," John said, pushing himself to his feet. "But—"

"It's going to start soon, Dr. Watson—a wildfire." Moriarty walked toward the door, stopped, and gave John one last, chilling smile.

"Have you ever been in an…explosive situation, Johnny-boy?"

Pressing his lips together, wishing there was some way to get between the megalomaniac and the door, John nodded curtly.

"Then you'll know that, when the world is one spark away from blowing sky high, the man with the match holds all the cards."

John dropped the worthless gun on the chair. "I never liked gambling."

Moriarty's lip twisted. "Learn to," he sneered. "Because… I… cheat."

And he was gone.

* * *

Sherlock frowned at his brother. "What do you mean, reporters?" he demanded. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Sherlock, in the past two months, no fewer than seven investigative reporters have taken flats within spitting distance of two hundred and twenty-one B. Anything you care to share with me?"

Sherlock smirked and tossed the folder of names and photos back to his brother. "Sorry to disappoint," he said, "But this time, I haven't actually done anything to merit the attention."

Mycroft shook his head. "Given the information you just shared, I can make an educated guess as to what they might be doing there."

"You think that Jim Moriarty is setting up my flatmate to take the fall for four murders and is also letting the press know about it in advance? Come on, Mycroft, isn't that a bit—" Sherlock stopped, a light flickering on in his pale eyes. "Oh."

Mycroft nodded. "Exactly."

_John's a murderer, I'm a fraud, this may not be the first crime I've covered up…Oh, I can see it all now…_ "Brilliant."

"You would think so." Mycroft slapped the file folder. "Sherlock, we both know what's coming. He's sworn to destroy you—his only rival."

"And you think I don't see that, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped, standing. _As if I'm one of his lackeys, too stupid to realize these things on my own, without him spelling it out letter by letter—_

Mycroft sighed, and suddenly looked far older than he should have. "Just…be careful, Sherlock. You're my brother. I owed you a warning, and I've given you that. Now you owe it to John to protect him."

Sherlock glared at his brother for a long moment, snatching at every detail of the older man's appearance as if the tiny deductions he made could somehow chip away at Mycroft's armor. _Coffee stain on his cuff, keeping the hunger at bay—diet is harder than he'd thought. Loose button on his jacket—wife irritated at him again. Circles under his eyes—long nights working. Haircut two days ago. Nicked his cheek shaving. _

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

* * *

Sherlock slammed into 221B, still simmering from his conversation with Mycroft. "John," he called as he came up the stairs, "Let it be known here and now that my dear brother is an unmitigated—"

He broke off as he entered the living room and saw John sitting in his armchair, gun clenched in a white-knuckled fist, and his eyes staring at the wall.

"John?"

John's eyes focused on Sherlock, and the lanky detective resisted the urge to step back.

"He was here," the blonde man said, his voice soft and furious. "Moriarty was _in this flat._" He looked down at the gun and back up at Sherlock. "He. Made. Tea, Sherlock. _Tea_."

"Moriarty was here?" Sherlock felt as if he'd been punched. "And you're—"

"Still alive, yeah. Had rather a nice chat."

Sherlock crossed the room in a couple easy strides and started to sink into his chair.

John looked up. "He sat in your chair."

Sherlock froze. "He _what?_"

"Yeah, Sherlock." John tossed the gun at his flatmate, and Sherlock caught it deftly, looking down at his green leather armchair with disgust. "He came into our flat, he made tea in our kitchen, and he sat in your chair—and, for the moment at least, we're both still alive."

Sherlock left off his visual evisceration of the armchair and turned his attention to the gun in his hands. "This is a fake," he said, with some surprise. "You told me—"

"Yeah, well…" John threw up his hands. "I hadn't touched it in a while. And then _he_ was in here, and I wasn't paying attention…"

"But that means that the gun used—"

"Yes, Sherlock." John sat back and rubbed his forehead. "It's mine."

Sherlock grabbed a chair from the table and sank into it. The two sat in silence for a long moment.

"That's not all," Sherlock said at last. He held up the replica SIG-Sauer and examined it closely. "Not only is it your gun, there's an eyewitness who described a man leaving the park after Thomas Shore was killed, the description fits you to a tee, and your Army serial number was planted on or near each body."

John nodded, still rubbing his forehead. He felt a headache the size of Germany coming on. "According to Moriarty, I've gone bonkers with PTSD and killed five people."

"Five?"

"Yeah—he said—"

Sherlock's phone beeped, and he drew it out.

_Four down, one to go. Having fun? –JM xx_

"Not good?" John asked. Sherlock glanced at him, and could see in his face that John knew exactly who had just texted.

"Bit not good, yeah," he answered. "Not good at all."


	6. Key Code

"Why me?"

John was staring at the ceiling, as if he somehow hoped to find the answers there.

"What?"

He rolled his head to look sideways at Sherlock, who was scanning through his phone at lightning speed, looking for information—though on what, John wasn't sure. "Why me? Why is Moriarty going to so much trouble to frame me?"

"No offense, John," Sherlock answered, in a voice that usually meant something offensive was coming, "But this isn't actually about you. It's me he wants—you're just the tool he's using."

Frustration surged. "Right. Yeah, thanks for the reassurance." John lurched to his feet. He needed to go somewhere and cool off. "I'll remember that the next time I'm strapped to a bomb. That it's not _personal_."

Sherlock looked up from the pile of papers he was sifting through, and John saw a flash of something that might have been hurt cross his face. Then it was gone, so quickly that John discarded the notion. Surely it wasn't personal to Sherlock. They were friends, certainly, but nothing seemed to get past that rhino-hide that protected the inner Holmes.

The look had taken the sting out of his anger, though—especially since he knew Sherlock was right. Moriarty wasn't the sort to have personal beefs with lowly army doctors. He was merely a piece in the game. The tension went out of John's shoulders, and instead of stumping from the room, he stepped closer to the case notes clustered around the mirror. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Alright, Sherlock, alright." He looked down at his friend. "Any ideas?"

"Seventeen, but not enough information to act on any of them."

"Four victims—another one on the way." A sudden thought struck John, and he reached for his phone. "We should call Lestrade—"

Sherlock was out of his chair, his hand gripping John's arm, before the doctor finished speaking. Startled, John stared up at Sherlock's face. "What? Don't you think we should _warn_ him?"

"And put him in danger too?" Sherlock's icy eyes narrowed. "As soon as Lestrade knows Moriarty's game, he becomes a part—a pawn on the board. Easy to take out. If Moriarty thinks, even for a second, that he's a threat, Donovan and Anderson will be looking for a new boss."

John tried to pull his arm away. "But someone will die, Sherlock! You can't just let that happen!"

Releasing his grip, Sherlock stepped back. "Chances are, it already has," he said, his voice resigned. "The other victims were all killed within hours of each other. In all likelihood, the last one is already—"

Sherlock's phone chirped.

"—dead." They stared at each other. Then Sherlock pounced on the phone, snatching it up and unlocking the text. He read it, and passed the phone to John without a comment.

_5__th__ body found in alley_

_olivia norwood student _

_age 22 meet me at _

_the yard –gl_

"And there's number five," John sighed. "Just a kid."

"Someone needs to teach that man how to text," Sherlock grumbled. "…Olivia Norwood, Olivia Norwood…the name, the name is important…" his voice trailed off.

John picked up a pen and took down the list of victims. Jeremy Ovington, Wilson Adams, Helen Nash, Thomas Shore, and now Olivia Norwood. Five victims, just as Moriarty has said. Feeling sick, John added the new name to the list.

"Something is _missing_, John," Sherlock burst out. He began pacing the short length of the room, ruffling his hair with both hands in frustration. "Like an itch I can't scratch. It's _there_, just on the tip of my brain…Olivia Norwood…Who _is _Olivia Norwood?"

John shook his head and lifted the list to pin it back to the wall. He stopped, something catching his eye. Jeremy Ovington. Wilson Adams. Helen Nash. Thomas Shore. Olivia Norwood. He stared at the small slip of paper until the penciled letters burned into his brain. Across the room, Sherlock abandoned his pacing to fetch his coat and scarf.

"John? Are you coming?"

Jeremy Ovington. Wilson Adams. Helen Nash. Thomas Shore. Olivia Norwood.

No. The list was wrong. John shut his eyes and pictured it: Jeremy Ovington. Helen Nash, _then _Wilson Adams. Thomas Shore. Olivia Norwood.

"John?" Sherlock's hand touched John's shoulder, and the puzzle clicked into place.

"Oh my—Moriarty…" John banged a fist onto the mantelpiece with a bang, upsetting a pile of CDs.

"What?"

John laughed and turned to look at his friend. "It's my _name_, Sherlock. Look." He pointed to each name. "J-O-H-N W-A-T-S-O-N. Just another way of subtly smearing me, connecting me with this stupid game of his—"

Sherlock snatched the list away, his bright eyes darting over it.

Chuckling and realizing full well that he was slightly hysterical, John grabbed his coat. "This is just getting ludicrous," he said, "At first it was threatening, now it's just a joke. Moriarty is going over the top."

Sherlock slowly pinned the list back with the rest of the notes. "It doesn't make sense," he agreed. "I don't care how off his nut a murderer may be—no one would sign their name on a crime scene in that many ways."

"Initials spelling out _my_ name, _my_ serial number, _my_ gun…It's too easy. No one is going to believe I actually did all that." John followed Sherlock out the street and onto the sidewalk.

"You'd be surprised what people will believe," the lanky detective said, hailing a cab. "If they read it in the newspapers, it _must_ be true."

"Newspapers?" John climbed into the black vehicle and slid to the far side.

Sherlock climbed in beside him. "Right." On the way to New Scotland Yard, he filled John in on his conversation with Mycroft.

"So, in essence," John said, as they arrived at the Yard, "Every move we make is being watched, and next week's headline is going to be about my arrest."

"More or less."

"Fantastic."

* * *

John well knew the way to Lestrade's office by now—he had been there often enough with Sherlock to find his way blindfolded—but he had never traversed the halls with so much foreboding. If Moriarty had his way, the next time John came here it would be in handcuffs.

Not a pleasant idea.

"John, Sherlock," Lestrade greeted them, his voice sounding overly cheerful. He motioned them into his office and shut the door. John took a seat in one of the uncomfortable chairs across from the DI's desk, but Sherlock continued to stand, even after Lestrade returned to his own chair.

"Where's the body?" the consulting detective demanded.

"Yeah, and it's nice to see you too," Lestrade snapped back. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days. "Downstairs. Morgue. And no, you can't go down there yet. I need to talk to you—both of you," he added, with a significant look in John's direction.

Sherlock relented, lowering himself into a chair beside John. "About what?" he asked, but John already knew what the detective inspector was going to say.

Lestrade sighed. "John…where were you between the hours of four and six this morning?" He asked the question as if it took the last ounces of his energy.

"Baker Street," John replied, remembering the nightmares that had awoken him that morning. "Didn't get up until six or so."

"Is there anyone who can confirm that?"

"Inspector, if you are implying that—"

The DI cut off Sherlock's indignant exclamation with an upraised hand. "I'm sorry—but I have to ask."

"It's alright, Sherlock," John said. "No, there's no one. Sherlock was already out—didn't come back in until seven or so."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "I was afraid of that."

John managed a tight smile for the man. "What makes you ask?"

"It was the call," Sherlock answered for the DI, speaking quickly, as if he couldn't stand the slow pace of the world any longer and had to try to speed it up himself. "That, combined with your serial number—which I'm sure he looked up—"

"And the little fact that the search for registration on your gun sent off so many alarms I got a visit from someone whose _name_ I don't have security clearance to repeat…" Lestrade waved a helpless hand. "I haven't filed anything yet, but it's only a matter of time."

Cold disappointment flooded John. "You don't honestly believe—" he burst out.

"No," Lestrade reassured him. John immediately felt ashamed for doubting the inspector's intelligence and loyalty. "No, and no one with any sense will either. It's too obviously a set up."

"And you don't even know the whole of it," Sherlock added. He grabbed a pad of paper and a pen from Lestrade's desk, scribbling out the names of the victims. "See?" He underlined each initial. "J-O-H-N W-A-T-S-O-N."

Lestrade cursed. "What have you stirred up, Sherlock?" he demanded. "Whatever it is, you might have had the decency to keep John out of it."

John stood. "In his defense," he said, "I think I probably involved myself." He remembered the explosive jerk of the gun in his hands, aimed through one window and into another, and Sherlock silhouetted against the florescent lights with a deadly pill in one hand. From that moment on, there had been no turning back. From cabbies and guns to pool water and explosives strapped to his chest to serial numbers and a fake SIG in his desk drawer…It was all a long chain leading inexorably to this.

Ooh, Moriarty was good.

John shoved his hands into his pockets. "Can we go?"

Lestrade sighed. "For now, yeah. But you're my only suspect, John—_I_ know you didn't do it, and _you _know you didn't do it, but my bosses will have my head and my badge if I hold out on this."

"I completely understand." And he did. Sherlock didn't, by the disgusted look he was giving the graying inspector, but John did. He only worried about the consequences of his being arrested—the humiliation and the bother of it all wasn't the problem. It was whatever Moriarty was planning _behind_ the scenes that concerned him.

As they left the Yard, Sherlock kept up an eloquent tirade insulting the public police force at large and Detective Inspector Lestrade in particular. John tuned him out, his mind rummaging through every word Jim Moriarty had uttered during their conversation in the flat. He felt as though he were missing something—as if the clues to solving this whole puzzle were right under his nose, like a riddle that would look childishly simple the moment he knew the answer. But he couldn't sift any solid conclusions from the encounter any more than he could follow Sherlock's diatribe—which was now entirely in classical Latin, interspersed with a large quantity of words that John, even with his limited and completely medical exposure to Latin, was pretty certain Sherlock hadn't learned from a textbook. Unless the textbook was written by a Roman sailor.

"…_the man with the match holds all the cards... I cheat."_ Moriarty's voice echoed in John's mind, as he stared out the cab window at the passing London city.

He had a feeling that the match was about to strike.


	7. You Repel Me

**A/N: **So, I'm posting this a good bit more quickly than I usually do, partly out of an eagerness to get it out there, and partly because I'm not sure if I'll have time Thursday, which is my usual "let's go post Dark Mirror and play with people's minds" day. :) And, before anyone comments, yes, this chapter involves dear old Kitty Riley, and yes, I did change her character for my own purposes. Or maybe not changed, but simply...elaborated as I saw fit. I really dislike the woman. Sleezy. Anyway, she may seem a bit OC, but since she's a) not a canon character and b) only in the original for, like, two scenes, I didn't see the harm in playing around with her a bit. Nothing drastic...just wanted to forstall the accusations. :)

Anyway, enjoy. And as always, reviews are greatly appreciated.

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* * *

There was a surprise waiting for them back at the flat.

An auburn-haired woman was sitting on the couch, a mug of tea in her hand and a file of papers beside her. John stopped in the doorway, confused, but Sherlock breezed past her as if she wasn't there, pulling off his scarf and tossing it across the room.

"Wrong flat," he said, without even glancing in her direction.

"You're Sherlock Holmes," she said, her voice breathy. Frowning, John stepped through the door and thumbed in the direction of the stairs.

"Did…Mrs. Hudson let you in?"

The woman ignored him. "I'm a big fan of yours, Mr. Holmes," she said. "I've read all of your cases—"

"Which means you're reading John's blog. So talk to him. I'm busy." Grabbing his laptop from where it sat on the table—his own laptop, for once—Sherlock stalked into the kitchen and settled himself into a chair at the table.

It was like a switch flipped in the strange woman, and she turned her cornflower-blue eyes on John with the same worshipful expression she had tried to give Sherlock. "You're him?" she asked. "You're John Watson?"

"Er…yeah. Who are you?" _We really need to install a deadbolt or an alarm system or something_. Unless he wanted to come home to an uninvited visitor for tea every day for the rest of his life.

"She's a journalist, John," Sherlock called from the kitchen. "Use your eyes."

John did use them—that is, he rolled them. "I said _who_, not what, Sherlock."

"Kitty," the woman answered, standing. She set the mug carefully on the table and reached out a limp hand to shake. "Riley. Pleased to meet you."

"You're a journalist?" She held his hand for just a second too long, and John pulled away, remembering Mycroft's warning. "Let me guess…one of our 'new neighbors'?"

"Oh, I like you," Kitty Riley purred. Yes, she purred. John wondered if Kitty was really her name, or if it was a nickname inspired by her languid, catlike attitude.

"What do you want?"

"There's been some…talk about you, Dr. Watson," she said, stepping closer. "Some rumors floating around that might make life interesting for you in the near future."

"And you, like the carrion eater you are, have come to pluck out the eyeballs of the corpse before it's even dead." Sherlock was suddenly standing again, looming in the kitchen doorway and glaring at the diminutive reporter.

John winced. "Sherlock—"

"What? That's what she is. Look at her!" the lean detective exclaimed, waving a disgusted hand at Kitty Riley. The journalist glanced down at herself self-consciously. "Nice outfit, but it's low-quality fabric—polyester—and there's a stain that looks like cheap beer on the left sleeve. Her shoes were on sale last week at seventy-five percent off. Her hair's all frizzled, like a shoddy haircut gone bad, and her nails look like they've gone through a shredder, for all there's bits of color on them. She either doesn't really care about her appearance or she can't afford to do any better. My money is on the former: she's a cheap reporter working for a cheap rag looking for a cheap story."

Kitty Riley gritted her teeth, and John noticed—how could he help noticing, after that rundown of Sherlock's?—that they were stained with years of cigarette smoking. "There's things brewing, Mr. Holmes," she spat, breathy voice disappearing, "Things that even the funny detective in the funny hat can't foresee. I may not write for the _London Times_, but I know a good story when I see one and I can tell you—your flatmate," she nodded at John, "is a good story about to blow. You're not my only source, you know." She stepped backwards to the couch and scooped up the file folder, waving it. "But I'm not the only one this guy's talked to. When the storm breaks, you're going to want someone on your side. Someone to…tell your side of the story. Clear the record."

John was feeling the effects of the last few days. Suddenly tired, he leaned against the doorframe. "And you think you're the girl for the job?" he asked wearily. "What do you want out of it?"

"I want a good feature," Kitty snapped, all the catlike laziness gone now. Her brow furrowed. "I don't want to work for the rag my whole life—this story could be my big break."

"Who is your source?" demanded Sherlock.

Kitty tapped the file with a ragged fingernail. "His name is Richard Brooks."

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. "Rich Brooks?" he asked, drawing out the name.

John glanced at him, squinting. "Know him?"

"In a manner of speaking…" Sherlock waved a hand and stepped closer to Kitty Riley. "Give me that," he ordered in a tone that brooked no argument, holding out a hand for the folder. She slapped it into his palm and returned to her place on the couch, retrieving the tea mug and trying to look confident.

Sherlock flipped open the file. "_I met John Watson in Kuwait_," he read aloud. "_He seemed a nice enough bloke, but some of the other lads in his unit told me stories about his temper and about how he would have these nightmares and start shouting in the middle of the night. And then he'd curse and shout at anyone who tried to help him._ This sounds like the writing of a fifth grader."

"And it's rubbish," John scoffed. "I've never met this Richard Brooks—in Kuwait or anywhere else—and I never had any problems with nightmares until after I was wounded. Not any more than anyone else, anyway."

Kitty Riley pursed her lips. "That's not what Brooks says. Page three, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock turned over the sheets of paper, and his eyes narrowed. "_On the third day out," _he continued reading_ "I saw firsthand the effects that war had had on Dr. Watson. He had a sort of attack, I suppose you might call it. Something set him off—something one of the lads said, an odd shadow on the sand, one of the convoy vehicles backfiring, I don't know what. But he turned in a moment from a quiet doctor into a vicious rampaging maniac. He was shouting in rage and attacking anyone within reach. He broke one man's nose and another man's wrist before we could get him under control. A dose of sedative from his own kit, and he was himself again, apologizing profusely and so ashamed of himself…"_ Sherlock trailed off, shaking his head.

John muffled a curse, feeling sick. It was all a lie, of course, but there were some true bits in there—he had gotten into a scuffle once, with two boys from his unit who had managed to find some 'recreational beverages' during their off hours. He had come across them mid-fight and had, indeed, broken one's nose and the other's wrist before finally breaking up the brawl.

"And there's plenty more where that came from," Kitty Riley said, sipping her tea. Her blue eyes looked up shrewdly at the two men. "I've got all kinds of information on you, Dr. Watson. Including some facts about this string of murders—the Finger-prick Murders is what they're calling them for now. But Brook's information says they might as well be the 'Death Doctor Murders'."

"And you think this information is reliable? Come on, Kitty," Sherlock snapped, throwing the file at her. It landed at her feet. "Man shows up out of nowhere claiming to have the biggest story of the year, and you jump right on the bandwagon without checking the facts? How _utterly _convenient. That's why you're still working for a rag rather than a reputable news source."

"I'd like to be on your side," the journalist insisted.

"Yeah," John interjected, "Because you'd rather stir up a controversy than just report a story that may or may not be true."

She shrugged. "I can report anything, lies or not. But the 'insider account' always gets more attention than the general story."

"You are loathsome," Sherlock said. His eyes were frigid, and he looked down at Kitty Riley as if she were an insect. "You claim to be a journalist, but all you really are is a gossip-monger."

"It's not gossip if it's true."

"Well, it's _not_ true!" exclaimed John, his patience failing at last. "It's just a bunch of stuff cooked up by—"

"John!" Sherlock gave him a quelling glance. _That name won't help your case any_, he seemed to say, and John subsided, seething. The nerve! Setting him up for murder was one thing—with all the 'clues' Moriarty had littered about the crime scenes, he knew a competent lawyer could prove he'd been framed. But tarnishing his military record…that was pushing it a bit far.

"Maybe you've been duped too, Mr. Holmes," Kitty continued, standing. She pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock. "Or maybe you've been covering for your little friend—or maybe your lover? That would make an interesting angle." She smiled, no more pussycat—this was predatory.

Sherlock snorted, unimpressed. "Now I know someone's been feeding you crap," he said. "Pardon my French." He glanced at John, raising an eyebrow. "That joke never seems to get old, does it, John?"

"He's probably twitting you about noticing his hair gel again," John muttered, remembering Moriarty's first personal entrance into their lives. "Turn about's fair play and all that."

Huffing a silent chuckle, Sherlock returned his attention to Kitty, who, judging by her confused look, hadn't followed that exchange.

"Get out," he ordered her. "Run back to your little friends and your little informant and tell them that this little scheme is a little short on genius. Discrediting me or trying to frame John—none of it will work, so he might as well stop trying."

Deliberately, Kitty Riley placed the tea mug on the table and stood, smoothing her skirt. "Try all you like, Mr. Holmes," she said. "Truth will out."

"Indeed it will."

The two men watched, not speaking, as Kitty Riley gathered her file and stalked out of the room.

When she was gone, Sherlock seemed to deflate a little. He plopped into his chair and sighed. "Repellant woman," he muttered. "Yellow journalism at its best."

"Worst, you mean," John replied. He slammed his fist against the wall, rattling the dishes in the cupboard on the other side. "Blast it all, Sherlock!" he exclaimed. "Is he just going to keep piling it on? Where does it stop?"

"Did you catch the name?"

"What?"

"Richard Brook. Rich Brook."

At John's blank look, Sherlock sighed. "Do you remember the Reichenbach painting case?"

"The one you recovered? Of course—they gave you cufflinks."

"Reichenbach translates to "rich brook" in English. Moriarty sponsored the theft of that painting—the name is his calling card."

"Subtle."

"Moriarty thrives on _subtle_." Steepling his fingers thoughtfully, Sherlock glanced sideways at John. "So," he asked. "How much of Kitty Riley's story is true?"

John's lingering irritation turned to nauseous ire. "You're worried she's telling the truth." How, after all that they had been through, could Sherlock _doubt_ him? Doubt his loyalty, his sanity? Other people believing lies, he could stand—but the idea that even Sherlock might doubt was beyond bearing.

"What? No, I—"

"You're worried that you might actually be rooming with a psychotic killer. You're worried that your stupid deductive skills might, actually, for once, have been wrong. You're worried you're _wrong_." John clenched his fists, squeezed his eyes shut and took several deep breaths, knowing that if he didn't control himself, something was going to get broken.

"No, I'm not."

Sherlock's calm voice broke through John's fury. He opened his eyes just as the detective stood, stepped toward him and placed his hands on John's shoulders, shaking him slightly.

"I know you, John Hamish Watson," he said, and John read no doubt in those steel-colored eyes. "I know you quite well, and I have no fears that I have misjudged you. All I'm asking is: how much of Miss Riley's story is based in actual fact—what can really be used against you?"

John relaxed somewhat, Sherlock's steadying grip on his shoulder bringing him back to composure. His friend didn't believe him a killer. That made all the difference in the world to him. "There…there was a fight. And I did break a man's nose and all that—the guys involved may be willing to lie about it. But the circumstances were entirely—"

"That's what you do when you want to sell a big lie," Sherlock said. He gave John's shoulder a last, reassuring squeeze, then spun around to face the collection of photos and notations around the mirror. "You wrap it up in enough truth to make it palatable. Like hiding a pill in a piece of cheese and feeding it to a dog."

"I'm not sure I even want to know how you know that."

"Had a Labrador with heartworm problems when I was a kid."

John tried to picture Sherlock petting a dog. Oddly enough, it worked. "We should get a dog," he said. "A bulldog, maybe." A jaw-popping yawn sneaked past his defenses.

Sherlock cast a withering glare over his shoulder. "Shouldn't you be going to bed?"

John looked at his watch. 12:36 am. He groaned. "And I've got the early shift tomorrow too."

"Off you pop, then," Sherlock waved a hand. "I'll work on this a bit. Probably won't be in when you get up…"

"Right. Fine." John yawned again and turned to go. Then he stopped and looked back. "And…Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks."

A genuinely curious expression crossed the detective's face, and he frowned. "For what?"

John looked at the floor, then back up at his friend. "For believing me," he said quietly.

Sherlock shrugged. "I know you," he repeated, as if stating an obvious fact that every school child knew.

"Yeah, well…thanks."

"You're welcome."


	8. Friends on the Force

John Hamish Watson was_ not_ a morning person.

As he poured himself a thermos of coffee and buttered the bagel that he had toasted, his eyes felt raspy and sore. He hadn't had any nightmares—not that he remembered, anyway—but even after Sherlock had sent him to bed he had tossed and turned for hours before finally dropping off. Add in the fact that he detested being awake before the sun had risen anyway, and he felt rather like a cranky badger ousted from its burrow.

He arrived at the surgery five minutes before seven—plenty of time to sink sleepily into his office chair, breathe a sigh of resignation, and try to clear his head of the filthy muddle life outside the clinic had become. Here, at least, he had some control. Here, he was in his element, observing and deducing in much the same way Sherlock did at crime scenes, except that John's subjects were still alive and not lying in a parking garage or a park somewhere with a bullet wound in their—

"Morning, John!" Sarah's cheerful voice broke through his darkening mood. He managed a smile for her as she popped her head around his door frame. "I brought donuts, if you want one."

"You morning people disgust me," he complained. "But I'll take a donut."

"You know what they say," she said, holding out the paper bag. "Early bird gets the worm."

He selected a chocolate-frosted confection and grimaced. "Sure, but the second mouse gets the cheese."

Sarah laughed, and John savored the sound. He and Sarah hadn't really dated, per say, since the incident with the Chinese circus, but they had gone to lunch together a few times, and he enjoyed her company. To hear her laugh—such a normal, every-day sort of sound, unaffected by criminal masterminds or mysteries—was a pleasure. "Well," she teased, "Someone is sure pessimistic today."

Licking a bit of frosting from his fingers, John set the donut on a napkin and laid it on his desk. "Nah…sorry," he said, following her out into the hall. "Just…had a bit of a night."

"That flatmate of yours causing trouble?" Sarah had probably been on the receiving end of too many "guess-what-Sherlock-Holmes-did-this-time" stories. John had an idea that she thought of the man more as a character in a story than as an actual person, for all that she had met him and seen him in action. His world and hers simply didn't coexist.

"Not really," was all he replied. "Hey, listen, Sarah—" Should he warn her that he might be arrested soon, and on murder charges? He felt as if he ought to…She was watching him, waiting.

"Yes?"

He couldn't. "I…never mind. It's not important." If he was arrested, she'd find out soon enough, and if he and Sherlock managed to avert disaster, there was no point in making life a bigger mess than it already was.

The workday didn't drag as badly as John had feared it might. He felt safe in the clinic—safer, even, than he did in the flat. This was his world, with no connections to Sherlock or Moriarty or their blasted, egocentric chess games. Here, he was not Sherlock's sidekick, Sherlock's blogger, Sherlock's shadow. Here, he was simply Doctor John Watson, good with kids and cranky old ladies, a soft spot for veterans, and a knack for quick diagnosis.

Settling his mind into work-mode, John soon found himself relaxing into the rhythm of the clinic. As patient after patient came through his office and he dealt with the day-to-day issues of head colds, diabetes, sprains, and annual checkups, the frustration and fear of Moriarty's game faded into the background—still there, still threatening, but remote and quieted for a moment. Odd, that the stressful life of a general practitioner could actually be relaxing in comparison.

Then again, everything's relative.

When he clocked out for the day at half past four—the overtime would come in handy the next time he needed to dash off with Sherlock—John was feeling better than he had in days. He was tired, to be sure. But it was only the normal, average tiredness of a long day of work well done—not the crash after an adrenaline rush or the exhaustion of three days dogging Sherlock's footsteps through the back alleys of London.

Deciding to walk back to Baker Street rather than taking the Tube or a cab, John tried calling Sherlock. Unsurprisingly, the detective's phone rang out. "Probably off in his mind palace or something," John muttered to himself, slipping the phone back into his pocket. He shook his head, half annoyed, half fond. Oh well, he'd stop by the store on his way and if Sherlock needed anything he could darn well get it for himself later.

Maybe it was the prospect of possible arrest in his near future—or worse, but he wouldn't think about that now—or maybe it was just that he hadn't walked the sidewalks of London alone in quite some time. Something, though, had John watching his surroundings with more than his usual attention. He took in the faces and the clothing of people as they passed him on the noisy streets, catching snippets of conversation.

"…and I told her that the contract wasn't up until May…"

"…grab some take away before…"

"…was it his? I thought she asked…"

"…right past the defense! Brilliant play…"

He was somewhat amused to realize that Sherlock's on-the-spot deductions were starting to rub off on him. A flash on a woman's finger: engaged. Her gaggle of giggling friends: shopping for the wedding. A man with a toddler in tow, both looking rather worn out, wedding ring and a sack from a pharmacy: mum sick, dad taking care of the kid for the day. Not having the best of luck by the look of things.

It was somewhat refreshing to not be the shadow for once, and yet—at the same time—he felt rather lonely, making his way through the crowded supermarket without Sherlock's towering dark form muttering observations and needing to be apologized for every five minutes.

That, really, was what was at stake—for John, at least—in Jim Moriarty's game. He didn't fear prison time or the embarrassment of a court case; he didn't even really fear bodily harm to himself. But he knew that Moriarty wouldn't be satisfied until Sherlock Holmes was destroyed—either killed, or so badly beaten he would never rise again. And that prospect, the prospect of losing the best friend that John had ever known…He shook his head. Sherlock was more than a friend. He was the little brother John had never had, and the peer he wanted to impress. He was vulnerable in so many ways, and John felt the instinct to protect him; and he was the more experienced in so many things that John trusted him implicitly to keep them both safe. He wasn't sure what the word was for that sort of friendship—partners in crime, comrades in arms, brothers in all but blood—but he knew that it was a rare and precious thing in the modern world.

Cost what it would, he refused to let Moriarty take that away.

He was nearing 221B, carrying two loaded bags of groceries, when a sudden screech of tires and a woman's scream jerked him from his reverie and back into the nightmare that was his life.

Spinning around, he was just in time to see a small white car without plates peal out and speed away, leaving behind a huddled body on the side of the road.

John dropped the shopping bags where he stood and ran across the street. "Get back, get back!" he shouted at the horrified gawkers who were already congregating. "Someone call an ambulance!" He knelt over the prostrate woman and realized with some shock that it was the reporter from the night before—Kitty Riley. Blood from a messy wound on her temple streaked across her face, and she lay flat on her back with her legs twisted up to the side. By her shallow, pained breathing, John suspected at least one broken rib—he hoped that was all it was. Hit and runs had a terrible chance for internal damage.

Her blue eyes fluttered open, and met his, and John tried to compose his face into a calm expression.

"'S alright," he said in reassuring tones, running his hands over her arms, feeling for broken bones. "Ambulance is on the way. We'll get you taken care of." Sirens in the distance confirmed his words.

"It was him," the injured journalist gasped. "I saw him…I saw his face…" Blood trickled from the corner of her lip, and John prayed it was only a bitten cheek or a broken tooth.

"Shh," he soothed, pulling off his jacket and tucking it around Riley's shoulders. "Shh, they'll be here soon."

"Saw him," she sobbed, shaking. "I saw Brook."

John closed his eyes tightly. Why did that fail to surprise him? Looking back at the injured woman, he leaned closer to her pale face. "Why would he try to kill you?" The ambulance arrived behind him, and he heard medics shouting for everyone to get back.

"Wasn't supposed to…talk to you…" her fingers plucked at his sleeve and she managed a wry grin past the tear stains that streaked her cheeks. She sucked in a quick gasp of pain. "Wanted a better story."

The medics tugged at John, forcing him to move away, and he didn't resist. The cold feeling in his chest spread as he watched the emergency personnel go to work.

"John!"

Sherlock's voice broke through the general noise of the crowd, and John looked up to see the detective shoving his way through the barricade of people. There was a look of horror on his face, and his icy eyes darted frantically from side to side before finally snagging on John. Relief flooded his features, and he hurried toward the army doctor.

"John, are you ok?"

"I'm fine, I'm alright," John reassured him. "It's…it's Kitty Riley. Hit and run."

Sherlock took John's shoulder and led him back to the sidewalk. "Moriarty?" he asked, his voice low.

John sighed, and bent down to retrieve his sacks of abandoned groceries. "Yeah. Yeah, it was him." The jar of pickles had cracked, leaking brine all over the sidewalk and the other items in the bags, and the bread looked like it had been stepped on. "Good thing I wasn't carrying eggs," he said.

Sherlock took the bags from him, surveying John from head to toe and taking in every detail of his expression, the bloodstains on his shirt, and the way his hand was shaking—just slightly. "Where's your coat?"

Jerking his head toward the bubble of commotion still swarming behind them, John said, "Gave it to her. Had to keep the shock off."

Sherlock nodded. "Let's get you inside," he said. "The last thing we need right now it pictures of you in that state."

They managed to get back to the flat without being accosted, and Sherlock carried the mangled remains of the groceries into the kitchen. John began sorting through the sacks, salvaging what he could and tossing the rest. "She said it was Brook," he said over his shoulder to Sherlock. The tall detective was standing in the window, gazing down the street, with the flashing lights of the accident crews reflected in his face. "Meaning it was really Moriarty. Moriarty tried to kill her."

"I thought it was you."

"Sorry—what?" Confused, John set down the tin of peaches he was wiping off and moved into the living room. Sherlock turned, and John was surprised to see that his fists were clenched—the only outward sign of inward distress.

"I knew you were walking," the words rattled off like one of Sherlock's rapid-fire crime-scene deductions, but the emotionless quality of his voice was even more blank than usual. "If you'd taken the Tube or a cab, you'd have been back ages ago. Thus, you were walking. And since we were nearly all out of food, I knew you had stopped at the store on your way. I heard the car, heard the screams, calculated that you would be nearly back, and I knew you were…" he let the words trail off and made a vague gesture at the ceiling.

John wasn't sure how to respond. "You knew I was…what?"

"Dead."

"Well. Uh…" John cleared his throat. "That's a rather…that's a quick conclusion to jump to…"

"It was irrational and illogical," Sherlock shrugged. "That doesn't always make much of a difference."

"Sherlock, I—"

"Don't bother," Sherlock said, with a tiny forced smile. "I don't need comfort for something that didn't actually happen." He dropped into his chair with a sigh. "Anyway—she said it was Moriarty?"

"Right, yeah," John ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, trying to get back on track. Sherlock was always unexpected, but it was the times he almost acted _normal_ that were the most unsettling. "Er, well—she said it was Brook. Which translates to Moriarty."

"But why would he try and kill her?" Sherlock's long hands were steepled under his chin, and he narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

"She wasn't supposed to talk to us—or at least, to me," John went back to the peaches, wiping pickle brine from the tin's sides. "She lived on our street, but she couldn't speak to us."

Sherlock's phone beeped, and he withdrew it from his pocket. "Mycroft," he said, glancing at the screen. He frowned at the message, and lifted his eyes to meet John's. "Kitty Riley died in transit. She's dead."

John grimaced. He wasn't even taken aback anymore by the fact that Mycroft Holmes seemed to know _everything_. "She died because she _spoke_ to me, Sherlock."

"No, she died because she was an _idiot_. No one disobeys Moriarty and lives long."

John stared bleakly at the cheerful cartoon peaches in his hand and felt his throat tighten with half a dozen different emotions—anger and frustration being at the top of the list. He felt so _helpless_. He was a doctor and a soldier—he was supposed to help people. Not get them killed.

"She wanted to move up," he said. "That's the last thing she said to me: she wanted a better story." He shook his head. "She died for a better story."

"There's probably some deep philosophy in there somewhere," Sherlock said, his voice dismissive. "You should blog about it." His phone beeped again, and he glanced at it. Instantly, his face went from thoughtful to intent. "Looks like you've still got some friends on the force," he said. "Lestrade's on his way."

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* * *

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The silver-haired Detective Inspector pushed his way into the flat without so much as a 'hello.'

"If anyone ever asks," he said, "I was never here and you can swear that in court."

"The answer is no, Greg," John said, giving the DI a tight smile. "I'm not running."

"Sherlock, help me talk some sense into the man." Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Gah—that's not something I ever thought I'd say—you know things are bad when you have to ask Sherlock Holmes for sense."

Sherlock didn't move from his chair. "John, he's not telling you to run from police custody. He's giving us a warning."

"The paperwork goes through first thing in the morning," Lestrade confirmed. "As soon as it does, it's only a matter of traffic and how long it takes an officer to get over here for the arrest."

"I'm not going to become some kind of fugitive!"

"We need more time, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "We can catch Moriarty out, we can beat him at his own game—but we need more _time._"

"Which is what I'm giving you. Look," Lestrade took a step toward the door. "Sherlock, you're a necessary evil, no offense."

"None taken."

"John, though—you're one of us. Have to be, the way you put up with this one." He jerked a thumb at Sherlock, who only shrugged. "I know you wouldn't do something like this. So…If you were to disappear tonight, I would know nothing about it—at least for twenty four hours."

"Why the limit?" John asked.

"Because after that, people start wondering. I like you, John, but I like my job too, and it's not like this is a case that'll put you away for life or anything. I'll stick out my neck so far—but no farther. Just…" he sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Get this guy before he kills again."

"Right." Sherlock took Lestrade's shoulder and propelled him toward the door. "You were never here, we don't know what anyone is talking about. I'll speak to Mrs. Hudson. Goodnight, Inspector."

He slammed the door behind the older man and turned back to John, rubbing his hands. "Get your coat," he ordered.

"Why, where are we going?"

"Crime scene."

"Where?"

"Olivia Norwood's flat. Time to play forensic investigator."

"Hm…CSI: Baker Street?" John asked, shrugging into his jacket.

"Sounds like a bad American spin-off series."

"That it does."


	9. Footprints and Forensics

**A/N:** Alright – sorry for the delay on this. Had a week of vacation during which I did absolutely no writing, and then the first week of my junior college year. Yeah – one might call it hectic. :) At any rate, I think we're about three chapters (including this one) from The End. This bit is bordering on slow, and if anyone spots any discrepancies in my scientific or directional endeavors, do drop me a line. Oh, and enjoy the special guest cameo of Dan Henderson, the OC of Kaelir of Lorien, whom she has so graciously allowed me to borrow. (See her excellent story "The Paper Memorial" for more about Dan.)

But the last two chapters…oh-ho-ho…I am being quite excited about them. LOL. At any rate, enjoy!

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* * *

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The sun was setting behind a bank of red-and-violet clouds in the western sky when they arrived at Olivia Norwood's home. The small flat was a ground-floor affair in an upscale complex—all whitewashed concrete and stainless-steel fixtures. Sherlock picked the lock with a muttered scoff about the state of modern home security and let them inside. He went straight to work, his quick eyes taking in every detail of the front room, while John watched, uncertain of his role in this venture.

Police tape still littered the sparsely-furnished rooms, but there was no one about—a fact that seemed odd to John, even if most of what he knew about crime scene investigation came from what he had seen on shows.

"Shouldn't there be someone here?" he asked, instinctively keeping his voice down, though there wasn't anyone about to hear. "Ya know, keeping people like us out?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock replied, his nose within centimeters of a smear on the glass sliding door. "Cleared it. We have twenty minutes."

"Ah." John glanced in to the tile-floored kitchenette around the corner, not quite sure what to do with his hands or feet. "Mm, right then…where do you want me to start? Check…the size of the footprints?"

Sherlock stood up straight. "Footprints?"

Somewhat pleased that he had actually seen something before Sherlock, John pointed to the floor just inside the kitchen, where five or six smudgy footprints marred the white tiles. "Police tape around those. Probably important?" He asked more than stated, but he knew he was right. Reruns of cop shows told him that much. If they taped off the evidence, it _must_ be important. At least in the televised world.

Sherlock crouched down with a satisfied _mm-mm_, pulling a small magnifying lens from his coat pocket. "John, you are brilliant," he muttered.

"Thanks. And why am I brilliant this time?"

Sherlock waved a hand over the prints. "They realized these were important. But only small samples have been taken of the material—you can see the smearing on the edges." He dabbed the tip of his little finger at the edge of the print and sniffed it, then touched it to his tongue. "Mud: clay and…river water, I believe. That tells us a bit right there."

"Of course it does. What does it tell us?" John started to lean against the wall and stopped himself at the last moment. No need to touch anything he didn't need to.

Sherlock held up a hand and closed his eyes in concentration. He was silent for a long few seconds, in which the sound of the mantelpiece clock ticking away seemed loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. "Mm…" he finally murmured in frustration. "Too many possibilities."

"Sherlock, since this is sort of my case, I'd appreciate it if you'd give me some idea what you're talking about?" Any second now, John was sure, police officers would come bursting in to cart them both off—him for suspicion of murder, and Sherlock for tampering with a crime scene.

"We need to get to Bart's."

"The…the hospital?"

"The sole of the shoe is like a passport," Sherlock explained, pulling some capped cotton swabs from his coat pocket and collecting mud from several of the footprints. "I can take some of this back to the lab and we can see all of the chemical traces preserved in the mud. If we're lucky we can see everything that he's been up to."

"Right. And I'm going to be a wanted man in—" John checked his watch. "What, twenty hours? How long do you think it'll take?"

Sherlock stood, tucking away his samples. "I don't know. It will depend on a lot of things." He steepled his fingers in front of his nose and paced back and forth for a second. "Give me your phone," he said, whirling around and holding out an expectant hand.

"What?"

"Give it here." Mystified, John obeyed. The detective took the device and popped the plastic backing off, prying out the battery. "There," he said, handing the pieces back to John. "Now at least they can't track your phone. We'll get you into the hospital without being seen, and find a hiding place there. Hopefully I can get this figured out before the police start looking, but…" he let his voice trail off.

John stared at the pieces of his phone for a moment, then shoved them into his pocket. He heard what Sherlock refused to say: that he would do his best, but these things took time. And meanwhile, Moriarty was still out there, and he probably wasn't idle. John would simply have to trust Sherlock.

Then again, these days, that was automatic.

"Ok," he said, squaring his shoulders. "Ok. Let's go."

"Good man."

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* * *

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It was completely dark and nearing ten o'clock by the time they arrived at St. Bartholomew's, but the greenish glow of a fluorescent bulb still shone in the window of one of the basement labs. Molly Hooper, her hair tied back in a ponytail and her eyes solemn, was waiting for them.

"I got your text," she said to Sherlock, as they slipped into the room and John locked the door behind them. "I'm here to help—I know you said just to unlock it, but I want to help and I know you don't really need me, but I thought I might be able to…do…something…" she trailed off and looked at John helplessly. "D'you…need anything?"

Sherlock had already settled himself onto one of the stools behind a hulking microscope and was preparing a slide with some of the mud from Olivia Norwood's flat. Seeing that the detective wasn't going to bother answering, John gave Molly a little smile and said, "Sherlock's probably got it sorted, but you can stay if you'd like."

"Oh. Good." She bit her lip, glanced at Sherlock, and then—without a warning—flung her arms around John. "I _know_ you didn't do anything wrong," she exclaimed, hugging him tightly.

Sherlock glanced up and met John's surprised look over Molly's head. Awkwardly, John patted her back and managed a half-strangled "Eh…thanks. Right." Sherlock smirked, and John resisted the urge to stick his tongue out childishly.

As quickly as she had hugged him, Molly backed up, looking red-faced. "Sorry," she said, looking down.

"No, that's…that's fine. I appreciate it, actually." John sank onto a nearby stool with a sigh. "Nice to know my friends don't think I'm a psychopathic murderer."

"Oh, I don't know…" Sherlock muttered, his face buried in the microscope again. "_She_ hasn't seen you when someone else uses the last clean cereal bowl."

John rolled his eyes. "It's not that you _used_ it, Sherlock," he retorted. "It's what you used it _for_."

"What did he do?" Molly asked.

"He filled it with pig's blood and left it under the kitchen sink. For a week."

Sherlock waved a hand. "It was—"

"_For a case._" Molly and John finished the well-known sentence in unison. Sherlock pried his eye away from the viewfinder just long enough to give them a withering glare. John laughed—the first real laugh he'd managed all day, and Molly edged her way around a stack of precariously piled reference books and printouts.

"How can I help?" she asked. Sherlock nudged a Petri dish her direction with his elbow.

"Start running as many tests as you can possibly think of on this mud," he ordered. "Look for anything—chemical compounds, traces of specific minerals, organic material…anything that might help us narrow down our field of search."

"Right." Now that she had a job to do, Molly's fidgeting faded and she moved around the lab with the assurance of someone who knew how to do their job. John, on the other hand, found himself watching his friends with nothing to do. There were only two microscopes, and not enough room around the counters for three people to be moving around. Besides, Sherlock and Molly were the experts here—sure, he knew his way around a lab, but it had been years since he had tried working with chemicals and compounds rather than actual people and their various illnesses and hurts.

With a sigh, John leaned his head back against the wall and allowed his eyes to drift shut. For now, there was nothing for him to do but wait.

.

* * *

.

"John?"

He came awake with a start at the sound of Molly's voice. "Mm?" He stretched, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry, what?"

She was smiling at him. "Sherlock's gone to get some things and make sure there's no one here looking for you. He said to have you awake, just in case."

"Right, right." Blinking the sleep from his eyes, John glanced at the clock. 3:00 AM. "Good morning, I guess."

Molly turned back to the counter and began straightening up, clearing off scribble-covered bits of paper and dirty microscope slides. "Who's Dan Henderson?" she asked.

John started. "What?"

"Dan Henderson? You were…muttering. In your sleep." She reached for a beaker filled with amber liquid, but too quickly. It flew to the floor, shattering. "Oh..!"

"Here, let me help," John grabbed a roll of paper towels from the cabinet behind him and knelt down. Gingerly picking up the bits of broken glass and soaking up the liquid, he glanced up at Molly. "This won't…you know, burn my fingers off or turn me into a Frankenstein or anything, will it?"

She tittered, and brought over a small mop. "No—it's just a sort of...well, that is, I think it's just a sort of saline solution but I don't know why it's yellow and Sherlock may have done something when I wasn't looking and—"

"Alright, it's alright, Molly." John ripped off another layer of paper towels, just to be safe. "I was kidding—mostly."

They cleaned up the mess in silence, but as John tossed the last of the trash into the bin, Molly asked again.

"Who did you mean, Dan Henderson?"

He stilled, and stared down at the trash can. Molly quickly backtracked.

"No, I mean—you don't have to tell me. I was just curious, is all, and I hadn't heard the name before. None of my business, sorry—"

"No, no…" John turned back to her and gave a little wave of his hand and a half-laugh. "You just…caught me off guard is all."

"Who is he?"

"He's—er, rather, he _was_ one of my mates." He looked at the ceiling. "Back in Afghanistan."

"Oh, sorry."

"No—don't be sorry." He cleared his throat. "Just…I must have been dreaming. Don't remember it, but then I don't always." He forced a smile.

She returned it, tentative. "Was he nice?"

"He was, yeah. Guess you could say he was. Saved his life once." John reclaimed his seat and leaned over, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his face on clasped hands. "Me and this private—Lily Williams."

"What happened to them?"

Gunfire, dust, blood, smoke…John gave a tiny shake of his head, clearing his thoughts. "Dan…died. Couldn't save him. Lily still sends me Christmas cards."

"And Jeremy Ovington bears a passing resemblance to Dan Henderson, doesn't he."

Sherlock's baritone voice startled John, pulling him from his reverie. He sat up straight as the detective carried two shopping bags into the room.

"Sandwiches," he declared, dropping the sacks onto a patch of clear counter space. "And crisps. Thought you might be hungry."

John stood. "What did you say?"

"Sandwiches—I stopped by a little—"

"No, no—about Dan. And that…that Ovington bloke."

Sherlock faced John as Molly began pulling the foodstuffs from the sacks. "That first night," he said, "In the café. You reacted to the picture of Jeremy Ovington. Said he looked like someone you knew. Later, you mentioned a girl from your unit, but it couldn't have been another case of false-recognition: you were looking at Helen Nash, who's fifty if she's a day. You were still thinking of Ovington and whoever he reminded you of. Just now, you said that you and the private from your unit saved Henderson's life. Ergo, the memories are connected in your head. The logical conclusion? Ovington reminded you of Henderson." He raised his eyebrows. "Am I right?"

John stared at his friend for a long moment before finally saying, "You know I hate it when you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Get inside my head."

"You thought it was extraordinary at one point."

"Yeah, but it does get a bit old—"

"Guys!" John was interrupted before he could say something he would regret by Molly's exclamation.

"What?"

She held up a sandwich. "Aren't you hungry?"

"Starving," John reached for the food and grabbed a water bottle from the bag.

"I'll eat later." Sherlock waved off the offer of a sandwich and walked around to the other side of the counter, scooping up a messy stack of printouts as he went.

"Clay," he muttered, tapping the papers in a thoughtful rhythm. "Mud…dust…asphalt…" He tossed the sheaf over to John, who caught it but nearly dropped his water. "What do you make of that last one, John?"

John scanned down the list. Clay, river water, brick dust, asphalt and… "What's this?" he asked, pointing. "Wheat?"

"More specific than that: ground wheat."

"What, like flour? He's a _baker_, then?"

Molly leaned over John's arm. "It's unbleached," she said, tapping the page. "So unless he's an all-organic baker, it's from something else." She sat back and took a bite of her sandwich. "My cousin is into all that organic stuff. Everything she makes looks like a mess, but it always tastes good, you know?"

"But where—_where?_" Sherlock slammed his hands against the counter, rattling beakers and glass tubes. "Both of you, shut up. Don't move, don't blink, don't…_breath_." He leaned over the counter, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

John swallowed his bite of sandwich, careful not to make a sound. _Flour, flour…_ Where would there be enough unprocessed flour lying around for someone to walk through it? A bakery, a store, a…a factory, maybe? A mill—yes, a mill! And a river mill—a mill on the Thames. What about…

"Gillian Mills?"

"Shut up, John!" Sherlock shouted, his eyes flashing open. Then he froze, blinking. "Gillian Mills."

"Yeah. That's what I just _said_." John rolled his eyes, half in irritation, and half-fond. "It's at least a place to start—old flour mill on the river."

"Better than that…" Sherlock yanked out his phone and busied himself with the touch screen. "Better than that, it's the only place that fits everything."

"Guess that's my cue, then," John grunted, standing to retrieve his jacket.

"No."

"What?" he turned to see Sherlock calmly pulling on his own coat.

"I said no. Stay here with Molly."

"Not a chance."

"John, Moriarty is out there—he could be anywhere, waiting." Sherlock's tone was calm, but there was a deadly-serious look in his frosty eyes. "We don't know what his plan is."

"And that's why I'm coming with you." John zipped up his jacket. "I can take care of myself, Sherlock. I don't need a…a babysitter." He glanced down at Molly. "No offense."

"Oh, no…no"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Fine," he agreed. He jabbed an emphatic finger at John. "But you do _exactly_ as I say."

"Got it."

"Alright. Molly—you never saw us, you don't know where we are. John…come on." And with that, Sherlock stalked from the room. The set of his shoulders said that he was still slightly irritated at having his rule overturned, but there was no way John was letting him walk into the lion's den alone. He only wished he had his gun…

"Right then, thanks, Molly." He hurried after his friend, barely hearing Molly's soft voice saying,

"Bye, John…Be careful."


	10. The Heart of the Matter

_(**A/N: **To those of my readers who may actually be Londoners, and who have forgiven my undoubtedly abundant slip-ups with regards to British language and spelling, as well as my shoddy attempts at London geography, I thank you. I ask that, in this and the following chapter, you allow me a bit of creative license: The flour mill I have set the end of this story in is loosely based on the main complex of Millennium Mills, in West Silvertown, Newham, London. I came across the place on a webpage of derelict buildings in London, and was thrilled at how exactly like my imaginings of Gillian Mills it was. Thus, I decided to use it and its history as the basis for my mill here. Those who don't know to what I refer can easily find some fascinating pictures online, and those who do know will have to indulge in a bit of willing suspension of disbelief. Gillian Mills isn't actually the same thing as Millennium Mills, but for illustrative purposes, it serves as the inspiration. …Also, "Gillian" Mills is my tiny head-bob in the direction of Karen Gillian, my current favorite actress, though why I decided to associate the Doctor's Scottish companion with a derelict flour mill…I may never know. : ) And on that note… Please enjoy. Drop me a message if you spot anything particularly out of line. : ) Thanks!)_

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* * *

The mill had been deserted for nearly three decades, a half-forgotten remnant of a different age. There had been attempts over the years to either renovate the derelict building, or to tear it down altogether, but nothing had ever come if it. It stood, a white, concrete monolith beside the river, a choice destination for "urban explorers" in spite of rotting floors, crumbling walls, and staircases that could collapse at any moment. John wrinkled his nose at the sharp smell of bird dung and mildew.

"Doesn't look like anyone's been here in years," he said, his voice low but echoing around the wide open room of what had once been a busy workplace. Now it was dank and dark and the parking lot outside had been so cracked and weed-infested that the cabbie dropped them of at the curb rather than pull in the driveway. It was a dead building—or at least, it was well on its way to becoming one. There was still something of a feeble dignity in the sagging walls and patched windows—but graffiti dotted the low concrete ledges that surrounded the place, while beer bottles and other trash littered the ground inside and out. The river lapped at its banks with the mournful sound of gulls and barges and could be heard through the broken-out windows along with the faint thumping of music somewhere in the distance—a nightclub, perhaps.

"Someone's been here," Sherlock pointed at the ground. "The dust is disturbed. Footprints."

John pulled a penlight out of his pocket and shone it deeper into the old building. It was getting light outside, but there was only a dim illumination near the windows, and the recesses of the large room were still in shadow. "They…they lead to those stairs." A rickety stairway led up the side of one wall and into the blackness above through a hole in the ceiling.

Without a word, Sherlock followed them, and John followed Sherlock. The ex-soldier's military training was kicking in, and he found himself scanning the shadows with careful scrutiny. As far as he could tell…there was nothing to see.

The stairs protested with alarming creaks as the two men ascended, but the mill stayed as silent as a graveyard. They emerged into another large room, this one with gigantic holes in the ceiling where machinery used to stand. John peered up through one of the gaps and realized that it extended through at least three floors above them.

"One set of footprints coming in," Sherlock muttered, almost to himself, scanning the floor of the room, "But they don't leave this way. So either—"

"Either he's still here, or there's another way out," John finished. He followed Sherlock's gaze to one of the massive windows that lined the far side of the room. It, like the others, had been boarded over at one point, but the planks had been pried away and piled to one side. The footprints led directly to the window, and stopped.

"There's another way out," Sherlock agreed. He strode across the rubble-littered floor to the window and poked his head out through a large, broken-out window pane. "There's a ladder," he said, pulling back inside. John looked past him and saw a tall extension ladder leaning up against the side of the building. At the bottom, it rested on the ground on the river side of the old mill.

"That would be where the mud came from, then," he observed.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. He looked around. "But why…?"

"Why what?"

"Why come here at all?" Sherlock rubbed his hands together and moved away from the window. "I had thought to find some kind of base, a headquarters or an outpost of some kind…But…" John watched him close his eyes in thought.

"Maybe…it's a false trail? A red herring."

"No…" Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he clapped his hands. "Look around, John. There must be something here—this isn't a base, or a trap, so it must be some piece in his puzzle. There's something here for us to—Ha!" he reached down to lift a grey plank from the floor—probably one of the ones removed from the window—and retrieved a small manila envelope.

"Careful," John warned. "There could be anything in there." Anthrax, explosives, venomous spiders…

Sherlock broke the small, red-wax seal and slid the contents of the envelope into his palm.

"A deck of cards?"

John stepped closer, frowning.

Sherlock fanned out the blue-backed playing cards. "Not a full deck," he corrected, thumbing through. "King of hearts, king of diamonds, jack of hearts, and…one ace. Hearts again."

"Is that all that's in there?"

Sherlock passed John the cards, peeked into the envelope and reached inside. "A note," he said, withdrawing a single scrap of paper. John held up his penlight and read over Sherlock's arm.

_Boys and girls, there's a story to tell_, it read. _ It's the story of a knight and a dragon, and a story about the old queen who let the storyteller into the castle to weave a tale around the dragon. But this is a messy place to tell a story. I think home, beside the fire, would be so much better. _

John looked down at the cards in his hands, ignoring the aces for a moment and focusing on the face cards. Two kings—one of hearts, and one of diamonds—and a jack of hearts. They had been altered, he realized.

"Sherlock," he said, pointing at the king of hearts. "Did you see this?" Someone had scribbled little flames around every heart on the card. "They've all been drawn on." The king of diamonds had been given a mocking grin, and the jack of hearts was entirely outlined in red-pen fire. A black heart had been scrawled on the king of hearts' chest.

Sherlock glanced at the cards, but didn't pay much attention. "The old queen," he muttered, taking the sheet of paper over to the grey dawn-light coming in through the window and examining it more closely. "Home, beside the fire…"

John rubbed his fingers over the ace of hearts. It felt thicker than the other cards. He flicked at the edge of it with his thumbnail and realized that it was actually two cards stuck together. Carefully, he pried them apart. It was a second ace of hearts.

_I cheat_.

Moriarty's words echoed in his head, and he opened his mouth to share his discovery with Sherlock, when he realized that there was writing on face of the hidden card. Dots and dashes in red ink around the edge: Morse code.

_Stay behind, stay quiet, and Sherlock stays alive, _it read. John's heart sank. Moriarty, as always, was one step ahead of them. Sherlock didn't know Morse code—not as well as John, at least. Moriarty knew that—and no doubt had expected John to give Sherlock a false translation. It was only a stroke of luck that John had seen the message and Sherlock hadn't. Should he tell Sherlock—or play by the criminal mastermind's rules? What were the consequences for disobeying?

John looked up at his friend, his lanky frame outlined by the growing light, his dark head bend over the scrap of paper in earnest inspection, completely oblivious, for the moment, to John's distress. In a second, he'd turn, and see John's frown, and ask what the matter was, and even if John lied, Sherlock would know, and would get the answer out of him. And Moriarty would try to kill him.

It wasn't worth it.

Carefully composing his face, John slipped the second ace into his pocket and straightened the rest of the cards in his hand. He was only just in time, as Sherlock whirled around and stalked toward him.

"We've got to get back to Baker Street," he exclaimed. "Mrs. Hudson may be in danger."

"You go," John said, clearing his throat. "I'm going to…lie low. Go to Harry's."

Sherlock stopped dead. "Go to…your sister's?"

"Yeah." John shook his head and tried to act exasperated. "She's family, Sherlock. She'll help me. You know as well as I do that Baker Street is the last place I need to be right now—except maybe for the Yard."

"Yes, but…" Sherlock actually looked disappointed. "Moriarty may have left a clue in the flat."

"Or he may have officers waiting there." John held out the cards. "Here. I'll get a second cab. Call me if you need anything." He knew he was being short, but hoped that Sherlock would either be too eager to investigate this new lead to notice, or would write it off to stress. And he _was_ stressed, after all.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and glared deductively at John, who pasted a look of bland annoyance on his face.

"Sherlock, if Mrs. Hudson is in danger…"

"Right." Sherlock snapped back into action, apparently filing John's odd behavior away for later analysis. "The old queen. That can only be her. She's let Moriarty into the flat for some reason—the old queen let the storyteller into the castle."

"How do you get that?" John followed Sherlock down the stairs and back through the first room.

"Story—that's what Kitty Riley wanted. A story. And where was she getting the story? From Rich Brook—aka, Moriarty. He's the storyteller. From there, it's easy to work out: the old queen is Mrs. Hudson, the flat is the castle, and one of us is the knight and the other the dragon. Not sure which is which yet."

"Ok, I think I'm following."

Sherlock strode out the door and across the crumbling parking lot toward the main road, still talking. "He says that the storyteller went into the castle to weave a story around the dragon—that's probably me; this whole thing is about discrediting me by setting it up to look like I've been covering for my murderous flatmate. Moriarty told you that himself. But what he could leave in the flat to make that happen…" They reached the road, and Sherlock hailed an approaching cab. "That, I don't know." He hopped inside and stopped to give John a last, probing look. "You're sure you won't come?"

"Positive. Harry'll help me."

"Text me if you have any problems." And with that, Sherlock let the door of the cab close, leaned forward to give the driver directions, and the vehicle moved away.

John watched his friend drive off, then turned around and trudged back to the mill. He ducked into the cobweb-draped doorway and walked through the still-dark, manmade cavern, climbing the stairs back to the floor where Sherlock had found the envelope. He could hear nothing but the cooing of pigeons and the river washing by outside.

"Well?" he called, startling even himself with the sudden, brazen sound of his own voice. "I stayed. That's what you wanted, right? What now?"

No answering voice came, only the flapping of alarmed birds taking flight and a barge sounding its horn downriver. John started to move toward the unblocked window, glanced to his right, and froze.

Jim Moriarty stepped out of the shadows of a door at the other end of the long room, a smile on his cadaverous face and his hands tucked casually inside the pockets of his tailored suit.

"Now," he answered, "We have a little chat."

John kept his face and body language calm, clasping his hands behind his back in an 'at-ease' position. "About what?"

"About _you_, of course, Doctor." Moriarty walked across the debris-littered room, somehow managing to stroll, even as he stepped over pieces of plaster.

"Why me?" John's hands tightened into fists. "What do you want?"

Jim Moriarty ignored his question, spreading his own hands in an expansive gesture, taking in their dilapidated surroundings. "Here we are again, Dr. Watson," he said. "Just you and me…and a couple of my friends. I'm sure you won't mind." His eyes flicked past John.

John started to spin around, but his arms were suddenly grabbed by two massive men who seemed to appear out of nowhere. How they had managed to soundlessly approach, he wasn't sure—but then, all of his attention had been focused on Moriarty. He thrashed against their grasp, but both men were at least a head taller than he was, with muscles like professional weightlifters, and he realized it was no use.

"I did what you wanted," he panted, ceasing his struggle. "Now tell me what's going on!"

Jim paced to the open window and rested his hand on the side of the frame, gazing out at the now-fully-lit sky and the river. "All my life," he said, his voice almost…sad? "I have been bored. You've seen Sherlock bored—you know how terrible it can be for minds such as ours."

"Sherlock is ten times as brilliant as you'll ever be," John spat.

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you." Jim rolled his eyes. "Sherlock has been a welcome distraction—one that I'm willing to let continue for a while yet. He's been one of the best distractions I've come across in years. But in the end, I've even beaten him. Oh, I'll play with him for a while yet, but the game is over, to all intents and purposes." He turned, and grinned at John. "This is the endgame."

He focused on the henchmen holding John captive. "Put it on."

John snapped his head around to see one of the brutes holding a vest. It looked like an outdoorsman's fishing vest, with half a dozen pockets down each side…except that each pocket bulged, and wires bristled from the lining. He tried to rip himself away, lashing out with his feet in an attempt to kick his captors, but to no avail. In minutes, he was again held, panting, by the arms: the vest strapped around his chest and blood trickling from a busted lip.

Moriarty stepped forward, pulling his hand from his pocket and holding it out toward John. A small, black object like a television remote rested on his palm.

"I made a promise, John," he said, his voice low. "Do you remember my promise?"

John grunted. "We've had this discussion already," he said, licking away blood from his lip. "Yeah—I remember. You promised to burn Sherlock. But I don't get what that has to do with me in a Semtex outfit—_again_."

"No, no, no…" Moriarty rolled his head back as if searching for patience in the heavens. "You've got it all wrong. I promised to burn _the heart_ out of Sherlock." Looking back down at John, the suave criminal mastermind laughed. "My dear, I don't think you give yourself enough credit."

Cold fear filled John's belly, and he forgot the hot weight of the explosives strapped to his torso and the bruising grip of the two men holding him captive.

"You're insane," he whispered.

"You're just getting that now?" Moriarty chortled. "Dear, dear, thick-headed John Watson: none of this little game of ours was ever about _discrediting_ Sherlock Holmes." He bent close so that his face was mere inches away from John's.

"It's always been about _destroying_ him."


	11. Are You Ready for the Story?

_**A/N: **__So…I lied. I'm a lying liar who lies. : ) I said that this would be the last major chapter, and then there would be the epilogue, but…well, things worked out differently. Mainly, Moriarty decided to monologue. And while I completely approve of monologues in psychotic criminal masterminds, they take up a lot of space. So, what with one thing and another (and massive cutting of Moriarty's wordier scenes, believe it or not…boy, can that fellow blather when given a loose rein) this ended up being the SECOND to last chapter, rather than the last. The last chapter will be next. Promise. Promise, promise, promise._

_I hope._

_Anyway, enjoy. I had a lot of fun with this one…Do tell me what you think. : )_

_Esther over and out._

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* * *

"Come on, come on…" Sherlock muttered. He was leaning over the driver's seat of the cab, staring daggers at the bumper of the vehicle in front of them.

"Sorry there, mate," the cabbie apologized. He waved his hand, encompassing the snarled traffic jam that stretched as far as they could see. "Morning rush."

Sherlock didn't bother replying. Horns blared, and he growled at the tangled mess of humanity and machines that obstructed his path. Coming to a quick decision, he fished a wad of cash from his pocket and tossed it over the seat to the cabbie.

"Keep the change," he shouted, leaping from the vehicle and dashing across four lanes of unmoving traffic. He could make it back on foot in less time than it would take that cab to advance three blocks. As he ran, his brain was moving as quickly as his feet, examining and reexamining the trail of clues Moriarty had left them.

What was his game? What was his purpose? The entire process seemed, to Sherlock, to be ridiculously clumsy—hardly worthy of the world's greatest criminal mind. John had been framed, for sure, but it wasn't even close to being a case that would stand up in court. Forensic evidence alone would acquit the army doctor, everything else was circumstantial. So while Sherlock's reputation might suffer a blow, there would be no lasting damage.

He rounded the corner of Baker Street and jogged to the front steps. _Unless, of course_, he mused, pushing the door open_, damaging my reputation has not been the main goal of this after all? Rule number one: Moriarty is a liar. He very well might have lied to John about his intentions._

"Sherlock?"

Mrs. Hudson came beetling out of her flat, a concerned look on her face. "Where's John, then, love?"

"Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock grabbed the diminutive woman by both shoulders and ducked his head, weaving back and forth to look into her eyes one at a time.

She smiled at him in confusion, "What are you on about?"

"You're fine," he declared, as much to himself as to her. _Makeup, been out to see Danny Leeds again—I _told_ her he's a compulsive gambler. Toast crumbs on her shirt, she's had breakfast with him._ He sniffed at the air over her shoulder. "You're baking. Been back, what—thirty minutes? Good."

She patted his arm. "Very impressive, love," she said. "Of course I'm fine. Just been having a quiet morning in."

For once, he let her think she had fooled him. Releasing her shoulders and standing up to his full height, he asked, "Has anyone been by?"

"Just one," she nodded up the stairs. "Nice young man, brought you your movie. I didn't know you liked Arthur Wontner—I've got three DVDs, if you ever want to borrow—"

"Did he give a name—what was the name?" Sherlock started up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

"Seb," Mrs. Hudson called after him. "Seb Moran. Sherlock—dear, are you going to explain?"

The door shutting with a decisive _click_ at the top of the stairs was her only answer.

Mrs. Hudson turned and returned to her kitchen, where a tray of shortbread was just finishing up. She'd have a nice treat for her boys tonight—or at least, for John. Sherlock never did eat enough, and especially not when he was on one of his funny cases. Now, let's see…where did she leave that oven mitt…?

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_._

John could feel his heart racing as adrenaline rushed through him. "What," he demanded, breathing hard, "What do you mean, destroy Sherlock?" His mind was churning in a wild circle, _stay away, Sherlock, stay away, Sherlock…_

"I mean exactly that." Jim Moriarty stood up, toying with the little black remote. "You see, I don't want him dead—dead is boring, dead is no more challenges. Keeping him alive, but removing all obstacles that keep him from putting everything into the game…" He began pacing back and forth—three strides forward, spin around, three strides back. John watched him the way one would watch a wasp in the room that one couldn't quite reach to kill.

"You first crossed our paths back when I originally let Sherlock see a bit of my web," the criminal mastermind said, still pacing. "The incident with the kamikaze cabbie—ooh, I like the sound of that," he paused, rolling the words in his mouth. "Kamikaze cabbie…Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

John glared at him.

Jim grinned, his dark eyes wide with laughter. "Right, sorry. I'll try to keep this to the point for you. Where was I?"

"Obstacles."

"Indeed. After that, you continued to get in my way. In the venture with the Chinese smuggling ring, you incommoded me; by the time Sherlock and I played our first real game, you were an inconvenience; when I set Irene Adler in Sherlock's path you absolutely hampered my plans…" his voice rose and echoed in the large, empty room, but he suddenly stopped, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. "And now," he mused, more quietly, "I find that your continued presence in my game and Sherlock's life has made the situation quite impossible."

"So you're going to kill me, then," John gritted. "You're going to blow me up."

"Oh, you're cleverer than you look, Johnny-boy." Jim Moriarty shot John a devilish smile. "It's too bad for you, of course—as I said before, nothing personal, but…Well, once you're out of the way, I can have _fun_ again."

He drew closer again, and once more held out the small remote. "So. Here's what you're going to do."

_._

* * *

_._

Sherlock spotted the blank DVD case the instant he stepped into the room. It was sitting on the small table in between their chairs, all alone, the other objects that had been on the table pushed haphazardly into the floor.

He listened, mentally measuring the airflow from the hall for disturbances. As far as he could tell, there was no one in the flat. Then again, why would Moran stay after he had delivered his package? He was doubtless already back with his master, helping to carry out some scheme or another.

He grabbed John's laptop—his own was in the bedroom, time was of the essence—and popped in the DVD. With a click and a whirring sound, it began to play. Sherlock turned up the volume, and his eyes grew hard as Moriarty's mocking face appeared on the screen.

"_Hullo,"_ he grinned, his dark face eerily cheerful,_ "Are you ready for the story? This is the story of Sir Boast-a-Lot and the Dragon."_

_._

* * *

_._

"Let him go," Moriarty ordered his henchmen.

They obeyed, and John rubbed his sore bicep where the goon had been gripping him.

"I really don't think you realize how crazy you sound," he said, keeping his voice measured and even.

"And I don't think _you_ realize how very serious I am," Jim Moriarty snapped back. He reached out and flicked a loose wire on the vest. John held his breath. Moriarty sighed and stepped away, shaking his head. "You _ordinary_ people can be so…disappointing."

"Fine, then," John said, straightening. "What _is_ your plan?"

Moriarty smiled. "You are going to confess to Sherlock Holmes that you killed those five people."

"What?!" John felt as though he had been punched in the gut. Then again, he shouldn't be surprised—after all, Moriarty had been trying to frame him this whole time. "He'll never believe it."

"Quite right: he never would believe _me_. But he will believe John Watson." Moriarty gestured at John's pocket. "You're going to call him, you're going to tell him that you are a filthy, lying murderer, and then you're going to blow this whole place sky high."

John locked eyes with the maniac, clenching his teeth, his hands clenching and unclenching at his side, as they always did when he was trying to control himself. Jim Moriarty stared back, and John could see in those black depths an absolute certainty. Moriarty had no doubts—he knew his plan would work. He had no weaknesses.

"Why," he asked, biting out the words in a voice so low he doubted the goons still standing silent behind him could even hear, "Why do you think I'm going to do as you say?"

A slow, confident, cold and clammy smile spread like a bloodstain over Moriarty's pale face.

"Because if you don't, I'm going to let you go."

_._

* * *

_._

Sherlock leaned forward, analyzing every pixel of Moriarty's face.

"_Sir Boast-a-Lot was the bravest, cleverest knight in King Arthur's court," _the madman continued, in a sing-song voice that set Sherlock's nerves on end. "_And the king sent him on many adventurous quests, along with his good friend the Dragon." _The dark haired criminal appeared to be reading out of a book with gilt letters spelling out _Tales_ on the front, and behind his head, on a screen, appeared cartoon figures—a knight on a black horse, and a mournful-looking dragon.

Sherlock clicked up the volume. _"Sir Boast-a-Lot and the dragon often jousted with a particularly clever wizard, because the wizard and the knight were such great fighters that no one else could match them." _The demented smile faded from Moriarty's face, and turned into an over-exaggeration of a sad frown. "_But the wizard had a problem._"

_._

* * *

_._

"What do you mean, let me go?" John was half convinced he had slipped into a _really_ bad dream, where nothing made sense. "I mean, if that's the case—"

"Sure, I'll let you go. You can walk away. Go back to Baker Street, tell Sherlock everything, and I'll leave you alone. Entirely."

John wasn't buying it. He nervously adjusted the explosive vest, feeling sweat coat his ribs under the heavy material. "There's a catch."

Jim Moriarty laughed. "Oh, Doctor Watson, you _are_ cleverer than you look." He sobered. "The catch is this: in two weeks, the whole Tube system will cease to exist." He grinned, and made a tiny exploding motion with his fingers. "Boom."

For most people, hearing a single man proclaim that the city's entire underground transportation system was going to explode wouldn't be much cause for worry. They might report him to the police or a hospital for the mentally ill, but they would never experience the cold surety that filled John in that moment. He knew, without a doubt, that Jim Moriarty was capable of doing whatever he said he would do.

There was no stopping him.

_._

* * *

_._

Sherlock's mind was going at top speed, and he could almost feel the smoke coming out his ears. He knew what Moriarty was getting at with his childish 'story'—it was _painfully _obvious. But what was his _plan_?

The idiotic frown on Moriarty's face deepened, and a third figure appeared on the picture behind him; a simplistic caricature of a man in black robes. "_The wizard was sad because, ever since he met the Dragon, Sir Boast-a-Lot didn't joust as much, and when he did, he didn't joust as hard. He didn't play for the high stakes anymore."_ Moriarty shook his head. "_So the wizard decided he needed to get rid of the dragon."_

Sherlock stood up straight, horror filling him as his eyes widened. "…John…"

As if in response, the face of Moriarty on the laptop screen grinned, a death-head grin that stretched from ear to ear in maniacal glee. He began to chant, the sing-song tone morphing into something even more unsettling, the canting of a madman:

"_He lured the dragon to a trap_

_And caught him with a mighty _snap!"

Backing away as if he were afraid Moriarty would reach out of the screen, Sherlock rubbed at his head, his long fingers frantically raking through the dark curls.

"_It's sad how dragons never learn _

_That while they fly…they also burn."_

__.__

* * *

__.__

"What do you want me to do."

It wasn't a question, not really. It was more of an admission: _I'll do it. I have no choice._

_You've won._

The look of satisfaction that spread from Moriarty's eyes, to his smile, and through his entire posture, made John want to clout him across the face.

"I want you to call Sherlock," he said. "I want you to _lie _to him. Make him believe you." He took John's hand and pressed the little black remote into his palm. "I want you to take this remote, and go stand in that window, and I want you to wait for Sherlock to appear. And as soon as he's in sight, you will press the blue button."

"Not red."

A real, honest laugh escaped Moriarty's lips. "No, that's far too boring. Blue is different. Unexpected. Much more…_me_."

John looked down at the remote in his left hand and the cell phone in his right, waiting for him to press speed dial two. Waiting for him to call Sherlock.

Sherlock. Sherlock could always think of a clever way out of any situation. Hadn't John been around him long enough to pick up on some of that?

_C'mon, John_, he rubbed a thumb over the deadly blue button. _Think of something…_

_._

* * *

_._

Sherlock fumbled with his pocket, withdrawing his phone and dialing his brother's number.

"Mycroft!" he shouted into his phone when he heard the click on the other end. "I need a car, _now_!" There would be no getting through that traffic in a cab—not now, not as fast as he needed to.

"One step ahead of you," Mycroft's voice was cool, but tight. "As usual."

Never had he been so grateful for the constant surveillance his older brother kept on 221B, but Sherlock made a mental note to sweep the flat again when he—when _they—_returned, and then perhaps send Mycroft something nice. He leaped to the window and looked down just in time to see Mycroft's Blackberry-toting assistant pull up on a sleek black—

"Motorcycle?" Sherlock brushed aside a tickle of glee. "You don't do anything by halves, do you, brother dear?" He thumbed an end to the call and whirled toward the door. On the screen, Moriarty was still reciting his horrific ditty,

"_Too late, no chance to stop the fire,_

_The knight will find a funeral pyre_

_And the wizard laughs at how his plot_

_Will burn the heart of Boast-a-Lot."_

Moriarty flashed a cheeky grin at the camera. "_The end!_"

Static filled the screen, and Sherlock slammed the laptop closed with a snarl, rushing toward the door and the cycle waiting below.

_Burn the heart…burn the heart…burn the heart of Boast-a-Lot…_


	12. Burn

**_A/N: _**_Last chapter, folks. I'll tie things up in an epilogue (or at least, tie them up as much as I can...) and that will be that. Except, not really. : ) I've talked to a few of you, the ones that seemed most interested, and I think I'm going to keep this AU going a bit longer. I mean, come on - this is fun, right? So, I'm going to start a sort of real-time series of one-shots (starting in September, I've already got two to post, as soon as the epilogue goes up next week) following the adventures of Sherlock chasing down Moriarty's gang and John in hiding. I've got some really fun ideas...anyway. You have that to look forward to, lol._

_Enjoy this chapter - note to those who may want to know, there's a bit in here that merits perhaps a PG rating, or perhaps a PG13 if you're a particularly visual reader._

_._

_._

* * *

.

.

'

"Go on. Call him."

John looked up at Jim Moriarty, gritting his teeth in anger and frustration. "What am I supposed to say?" he demanded. "How am I supposed to…convince him that I—_gah_…!" he shook the phone in Moriarty's face. "What am I supposed to say!?"

Moriarty shrugged. "You'll think of something." He turned and began to walk away. "Goodbye, Doctor Watson."

John watched him walk away, tailed by his two goons, and felt helpless and at a loss. "You're just…just leaving, then?"

Not even looking back, Moriarty called, "You can handle it from here."

"_What was it all for?_" Every ounce of anger and fear in John's psyche was packed into that shout. "Framing me, killing those people—why do all that if all you wanted was to…to get me out of your way?"

Moriarty turned, and the self-satisfied smirk on his face made John physically ill. "It was a _game_," he said, as if explaining to an idiot child. "It was all just a game. Just a way to…pass the time and play with your _darling_ little heads. It had no purpose—only to keep off the boredom." He waved a dismissive hand. "Now. You know what you're doing – you, or half of London. Make your choice, Doctor."

And without another word, he disappeared down the stairs, and was gone.

John cursed, long and loud, shouting things at Moriarty's back that he wouldn't have even yelled at the terrorists he once fought. At least _they_ were human. Moriarty was the devil himself—evil incarnate.

And John was his pawn.

He had no choice—there was no back door out of this one. No last minute salvation or ingenious solution this time. He stood staring at the black pit of the stairs for what seemed like years, racking his brain for _something_, _anything_ to remedy the situation. Finally, with a sigh, he did the only thing he could.

He pressed speed dial two.

.

* * *

.

Sherlock grabbed the black helmet from Anthea and threw one leg over the bike.

"Your mobile phone is patched through the headset," she said, as he slipped the helmet over his dark curls. "Voice controlled."

He nodded in acknowledgment, and then revved up the motorbike's engine. It came to life with a roar that satisfied every boyish instinct of his heart. Without looking for oncoming traffic, he slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and screeched out into the road.

Weaving between lanes and paying no attention whatsoever to road signs or general safety, Sherlock sped through the streets of London, toward Gillian Mills.

"_Incoming call,"_ a soft, feminine voice announced inside his helmet. _"Incoming call from: Watson, John."_

"Answer!" Sherlock shouted, diving through a narrow space between a cab and a bus. "John! Are you alright?"

John stood at the window on the side of the old mill that faced the parking lot. Behind him was the river, above him the sounds of returning pigeons, and before him the long stretch of patchy concrete and the road leading back into the city.

Sherlock's voice was loud and rough with fear. "_Are_ you _alright_?" he repeated. "Where is Moriarty?"

.

* * *

.

John pulled the phone away from his head for a moment, helplessly, then shook his head and lifted it to his mouth. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

How could he do this? Sherlock was brilliant, yes, but emotionally, he was not a strong man. He built up walls layered upon walls between the outside world and his inner self, and only a few people ever got close enough to see the real Sherlock underneath the shell of anti-social genius. John was one of those people—just close enough to cause more damage than any human being had the right to inflict on another.

But to keep both Sherlock and the rest of London safe, he would do it.

.

* * *

.

"Sorry?" Sherlock demanded, whipping around a corner and narrowly missing a street sign. "Sorry for _what_, John?"

There was a short silence on the other end, and then John's voice came through again—harder and rougher than Sherlock had ever heard it.

"Come on," the army doctor spat, "Don't be such an idiot. Surely you've figured it out by now."

Sherlock's blood ran cold, and he heard words from the past, smelled the stench of chlorine and fear.

_This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock? Bet you never saw this coming._

Moriarty was using John as a voice-piece—_again_.

No. He wasn't going to let that happen.

"John, I'm coming to get you."

.

* * *

.

John swallowed, and let his frustration come through in his voice. "Don't you get it?" He ran a hand through his short hair, loathing himself and loathing Jim Moriarty more. "Are you really that _stupid_? I killed those people, Sherlock. All of them. I planted my own dog tags, I picked the initials—it was all me!"

He held his breath.

"Why are you saying this?"

_I'm so, so sorry…_

"Because you're too idiotic to spot it yourself." Maybe, if John made him angry enough, he would believe the lies. "I used you from the beginning, Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty and I." Heaven help him, he was aligning himself with the one human being on the planet that he actually hated. "You really think he kidnapped me that night at the pool? We used you. He—I was his mole. His man on the inside."

"You're lying."

John squeezed the tiny, deadly remote in his hand, and tried to ignore the flicker of fear he heard in Sherlock's voice.

"Remember what you said to me, before we chased that cabbie through London?" he forced himself to ask. "You said you loved serial killers, loved the brilliant ones, because they were always so desperate to be caught. You said they needed an audience." He swallowed. "You were right. You just didn't know how right."

"John—"

"Shut up!" Tears—stupid, hateful tears that would choke his voice and let Sherlock hear the truth—stung his eyes, and John swallowed them with all the rage he could muster. "Just…just shut up, Sherlock. _Shut up_. I fooled you—fooled the great Sherlock Holmes. I lived in the same _flat_ and managed to keep you from guessing."

"Then why tell me now?" In the background, John heard a squeal of tires and a horn honking, and Sherlock shouted a curse that was presumably meant for the other driver. John stifled the urge to yell at the idiotic detective to _drive more carefully_, for pete's sake.

"Because…" Why _would_ he admit it now? More to the point—why would Sherlock believe he was admitting it now? "Because…I got impatient. I was tired of waiting. I wanted—wanted you to notice me. I got tired to being in the shadow, the sidekick." He kicked the base of the wall viciously, dislodging decades' worth of dust and dead insects. "You thought you knew everything there was to know about me, and you _stopped paying attention_."

"I don't believe a word—"

John groaned and nearly threw his phone against the wall. He hated himself right then—hated what he was being forced to do, and what he was doing to his best friend. Raging with an anger that was both fear for Sherlock's safety and dismayed joy that the detective refused to believe his guilt, he shouted, "Oh, stop being such an _idiot!_ You think you're so smart because you see things no one else notices, but you're really nothing special. It's all a lie, Sherlock Holmes is just an ordinary man."

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, and John held the phone away from his ear long enough to draw in a shuddering breath.

"Where are you?"

Taken off guard, John hesitated. "…St. Bart's."

"You're lying."

"No—" John could have kicked himself at the desperation that leaked through his voice.

"I can see the mill, John. I'm coming in."

John looked outside and saw a sleek, black motorcycle pull up to the main gates, and the long, lithe figure of his flatmate leap from the vehicle and come sprinting toward the building.

"No!"

.

* * *

.

Sherlock heard the unfiltered panic in John's voice and skidded to a stop.

"Stay exactly where you are," the doctor ordered. Sherlock looked up at the sagging structure and tried to work out where John was standing.

"Alright," he agreed, mentally calculating how many steps it was from where he stood to the door. "I won't move."

"I killed those people, Sherlock. I killed them all, and you never noticed. Because…because you're an idiot."

"_You risk your life to prove you're clever."_

"_Why would I do that?"_

"_Because you're an idiot_."

It was the same inflection, the same voice—the same words that John had spoken that first night, after he had shot that cabbie to save the life of a man he barely knew.

Sherlock squinted up at the window where he thought John stood. "Ok, listen John—just listen. The first time we met – that first night, you shot a man to save my life. That's not the work of a killer, that's the work of a…" he cleared his throat, "The work of a friend. You barely knew me, and you were willing to take a life and risk your freedom to keep me alive."

There was a short pause. John sounded as if he were choking.

"No one could be that loyal."

"You could."

.

* * *

.

There was no hesitation, no doubt in Sherlock's voice, and John nearly lost it. He let the hand holding his phone to fall away and hang loose at his side as he took a deep, steadying breath.

Sounding tinny from the tiny speakers, he heard Sherlock calling his name. "John? John!"

He lifted the phone back to his ear, trying one last time. "It's a lie, Sherlock. It was all a lie."

"That's it." Down below, Sherlock started to stalk across the parking lot. "I'm coming in."

"Don't move!" John shouted, desperate to keep his friend out of the blast zone. "Stay _exactly_ where you are!"

Sherlock froze, and held up a placating hand. "What are you doing, John?"

There was a note in the detective's voice that John didn't quite know how to read. It was frustration, and bewilderment, and fear, and a knowledge of impending loss all in one. And it broke John Watson's heart.

"This is…" John swallowed. "This is my note, Sherlock. Sort of."

"Note—what do you mean, note?"

"It's what people do—normal people. They…they leave a note."

"No…John Watson, _no!"_

John took a deep breath. He could put it off no longer. Any minute now, Sherlock would stop listening and come into the building. And then he would either have to blow up the mill with Sherlock inside, or wait for Moriarty to murder half the city.

His finger hovered over the small blue button.

"Goodbye, Sherlock." He hung up the phone and heard Sherlock scream from below—

"John!"

He pressed the button.

_**.**_

* * *

_**.**_

_**BOOM**_

Sherlock was thrown back by the force of the blast, knocked onto his back with the air punched from his lungs. He threw up his arms to shield his face from the explosion even as he gasped painfully for air—air that was searing hot and scorched his throat.

Scrambling to his feet, Sherlock cried out in horror at the raging inferno before him. "John!"

He stumbled toward the flaming, half-collapsed building. Hands grabbed at him from behind, and he struggled to fight them off, struggled to _get to John_. "Let go of me!"

Two police officers secured his arms and dragged him, fighting all the way, to the entrance of the parking lot, where three squad cars and an ambulance waited. They hadn't been there when Sherlock arrived mere moments before, but he didn't stop to wonder how they had reached the mill so fast, nor why they hadn't stopped the explosion from even happening. The only panicked thought in his normally oh-so-ordered mind was _John is in that building_, and he _couldn't save him._

"My friend's in there," Sherlock croaked, still trying to shake off the officers and rush back to the burning structure. "Please, John Watson—he's inside—"

He cut off at the officers' expressions, and stared back at the wreck where Gillian Mills once stood. A blast like that…the explosives must have been planted on the supporting walls. Every window on the second level was blown out and gaping, like the empty eyes of a skull, and smoke as thick as oil poured from the bleak openings.

Firefighters surrounded the structure, pumping high-powered jets of water into the flame-wreathed windows. Everything seemed to be moving in fast forward as Sherlock watched, every detail of the scene penetrating his mind with glass-shard clarity. Medics swarmed around him, officers barked orders into their radios, and the firefighters moved closer and closer to the building as they ever-so-surely defeated the flames of the explosion. In less than forty minutes, they had the fire nearly under control—it was only a matter of time before it would be out completely.

Shapes emerging from the misshapen door of the burning mill caught his attention. Two firefighters toted a sagging, long, black object, waving their free hands in front of their faces to clear the smoke. Sherlock's eyes fixed on the object they carried, one he knew well from his many forays into the city's mortuaries.

A body bag.

Ripping himself free of the officers who tried to restrain him, Sherlock half-ran, half-stumbled toward the two men and their ominous burden.

"Sir, you need to stay back—" one of them tried, but Sherlock ignored him.

"Let me see," he ordered, his voice hoarse. "Get back, get back, just let me see…" he couldn't finish, but yanked at the zipper with shaking hands.

"Sir, you really don't want to—"

Too late. Sherlock, as accustomed to death as its many forms as he was, drew back from the contents of the bag as if from a viper.

The body inside had caught the full force of the blast, and was a bloodied, blackened mass without recognizable features. The nose was entirely gone, one half of the face was a mess of shredded flesh and shattered bone, and the other half was charred like old firewood. All the hair had been burned away, but tattered rags of clothing clung in clotting shreds to the chest and shoulders.

_Wool_, the analytical part of Sherlock's brain muttered, _that's how wool looks when it burns. Tan-dyed wool, remains of a knitted cable pattern…_

John's jumper. The one he had been wearing since they left the flat…was that only yesterday? Less than twenty four hours.

Sound ceased. The air stilled. The earth, for one moment, stopped rotating. Sherlock stood, ramrod straight, and stared with dying eyes at the brutally mangled body of the man who had been his best friend. His only friend.

Then he turned and walked away.

"Sir?" the firefighter called after him, "Are you alright—sir?"

Sherlock didn't hear him. Already, his cognitive mind had retreated into the innermost sanctum of his mental palace, retaining only enough consciousness to keep his feet moving and his body upright as he walked across the parking lot, out the gate, and past the emergency vehicles still flashing and beeping in a chaotic mess outside. He sank down on the curb, curling his long arms about his legs and staring unblinkingly up at the grey sky.

Rain had begun to fall—not a real, soaking rain like in the films, but a misting, soggy drizzle that collected in growing droplets on the detective's pale face. He did not cry—he would not cry, he never cried.

But the sky cried for him.

And he saw nothing.

He didn't see the medics who repeatedly wrapped an orange shock blanket around his shoulders, only to have him shake it off again. He didn't watch as the paramedics loaded the limp body bag into an ambulance and drive away without lights or sirens. He didn't move when weary shouts announced that the fire was out. And his eyes stayed far away and unfocused even when a pair of trousered legs appeared in front of him and the drizzle ceased as an umbrella was held over his rain-dampened head.

"Sherlock," the owner of the legs and the umbrella said softly.

He didn't respond, only stared into empty space with eyes like two blue marbles. His lips were slightly parted, and the rain had wilted the collar of his coat until it drooped like a creature in mourning.

Mycroft Holmes sighed and motioned his assistant over. She was carrying a soft, bulky package, which he took from her, unfolded, and draped over his little brother's unmoving shoulders.

Sherlock sat, as if carved from stone, for several more long moments, but Mycroft waited: a patient tower of calm in the center of a frenzied storm. Slowly, Sherlock's hand lifted, and brushed the edge of the material covering his shoulder. He looked down, and his eyes lost their glossy quality to focus on the jacket Mycroft had given him.

John's jacket. The one he had left with Kitty Riley.

Sherlock pinched the material between his fingers and rubbed it slowly.

"He's dead."

The words left Sherlock's lips like a breath or a sigh—no emotion, no color, and no life.

"Yes," Mycroft agreed in the same tone. He let out a long breath. "Yes, he is."

"I killed him."

Mycroft had no answer to that one, but Sherlock knew it to be true. If it weren't for his own stupidity—his arrogance in thinking he could outsmart Moriarty, his senselessness in allowing John to follow him into danger, and his flat-out _idiocy_ in not realizing what was really going on before it was too late…He might as well have lit the fuse himself.

Still not looking up at his brother, Sherlock held the sleeve of John's coat to his face and breathed in.

_Laundry detergent. Chemicals._ It had been cleaned. There was no trace of any other, more comforting scent on the dark fabric. Disappointment filled him, but he kept his face blank and finally lifted his eyes to look up at Mycroft.

The elder Holmes was also expressionless—or at least, he would appear that way to anyone who didn't know how to read the subtle clues in his masklike face. But to Sherlock, there was a wealth of regret and sympathy in his older brother's gaze.

And Mycroft saw in Sherlock's icy eyes a terrifying cocktail of simmering rage, helpless grief, and utter bewilderment.

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, wrapping John's black jacket more tightly around his thin shoulders.

"Take me home."


	13. Epilogue: Three Months Later

"We need to make a stop," Sherlock told his brother as they drove away from 221B.

Mycroft nodded. "I thought you might want to. Have you been there since—"

"No." Sherlock looked away, out the window.

Fingering the plastic bag and syringe in his pocket, Mycroft pursed his thin lips. "I thought not."

The two brothers rode in perfect silence the rest of the way to their destination, driven by one of Mycroft's many pad-footed, closed-mouth minions. When the sedan rolled to a smooth stop, Sherlock unfastened his seat belt and opened the door. He looked back at his brother.

"Mycroft—"

The elder Holmes held up a hand. "I'll wait here."

Sherlock nodded and shut the door, grateful for the privacy.

The cemetery was a quiet place, lush with recent rain and smelling faintly of the roses that grew in hedges down the sides of the path. Sherlock found himself strolling more than striding as he walked down the white gravel trail, savoring the peace of the place's silence. It was a different silence than that of their—his—flat.

Off to the left, he spotted the grave and stepped off the path and onto the thick lawn. The ground was soft and springy under his feet—his analytical mind offered up several theories as to _why_, exactly, old cemeteries had such good lawns, but he nudged those thoughts out of the way as he reached his destination.

He stopped, looking down at the small, easily-overlooked grave marker. It was brown stone, laying flush with the ground, with a simple brass plate reflecting the sunlight.

_Captain John Hamish Watson,_ it read in plain block letters. Four words, two dates, and a dash in between—nothing else. No inscription proclaiming him _Soldier, Doctor, Brother, Friend_ or offering shallow hope with a trite _Safely Home._ Sherlock could have asked Harry to let him include some sort of memorial—_John Watson: Brilliant, Amazing, Fantastic_, or _John Watson: Blogger_, or _John Watson: Conductor of Light,_ or even _John Watson: Friend._

But that would have been sentiment.

Then again, so was coming here.

With a glance around to make certain he was unobserved and alone, Sherlock thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets and sighed. He let his head hang down, but kept his eyes on the small headstone.

"I, ah…" he cleared his throat. "This is idiotic and unrealistic and I realize that, but I read an article that suggested…Anyway."

This was stupid. He was talking to a dead man—not even to a dead man, but to the rock that sat above the dead man's grave. But he had come this far, and Sherlock Holmes was never one to back down. He tried again, his voice low but clear.

"I told you once, John, that I wasn't a hero. I'm not a hero. I never wanted to _be_ a hero, and you tried to make me into one anyway. But you were wrong." He glanced up at the sky, bright blue and clear above his head. "You were the real hero, John. I don't know why you did what you did, but I'm sure there was a reason. And painting you a suicidal killer contradicts all other evidence."

A bird flew into the branches of the ancient oak tree that stood over John's grave, and chirruped quizzically at Sherlock. He blinked slowly, and addressed his words to the small creature, as if it could somehow understand in John's place. "You were the best man—the best soldier, the best doctor, the best…The best _friend_ I have ever known, and I will never believe that your friendship was a lie."

His shoulders slumped, with either relief or exhaustion or dejection or a combination of the three.

"I promise you this, John," he continued, biting out the words. "I will_ find_ Moriarty, and I will destroy him. After that…" he sighed. "I don't know."

He stood, silent for a moment, and then turned and started to walk away. But with a sudden about-face, he stabbed a finger imperiously at the gravestone and said, in a voice a bit louder, perhaps, than a truly emotionless man would have, "Just one more thing John—one more thing. Stop—stop this whole thing. Don't be dead. You always managed to surprise me, even when I thought I knew what to expect." He drew in a breath, and let it out in a long sigh.

"Surprise me one more time."

And he walked away. Behind him, the bird hopped to a lower branch, cocked it head, and darted away, a flash of feathers and bright eyes in the blue sky overhead. The dappled sunlight shone down through the leaves of the oak onto the brass nameplate that marked the final resting place of John H. Watson.

.

* * *

.

"If I could move," said a voice brimming with controlled venom, "I would track down your boss and decapitate him with his own umbrella."

There was no one in the room with him, but John knew that someone was keeping watch from the other side of the "mirror" that hung on the wall. He lay, swathed in bandages and with one leg suspended from above in a thick white cast, practically tied to the hospital bed with IVs and monitors strapped to every inch of his body. He had missed an entire two months of his own life, apparently, kept in a drug-induced comatose state until the internal injuries he had sustained healed. When he woke, he was here. The room didn't look like a hospital room—it looked like a private bedroom. Where, he had no idea—there were no windows.

The only view of the outside world he possessed was the large television mounted on the wall across from his bed. He stared up at the screen, blinking back tears that were part meds, part anger, part pain, and part relief. He had heard Sherlock's entire speech, fed through a hidden camera and mic in the tree above his "grave".

"He should know," John continued, shifting his gaze to stare at the mirror. If looks could kill…

The pine-colored door slid open and Mycroft's pretty assistant glided in, a chart in her hand. She ignored him, examining the various beeping bits of machinery hooked up to his aching body.

"Sherlock should _know_," John repeated. "You're lying to him."

She shook her head without looking up. "If Sherlock knew—if anyone else knew—Moriarty would know. And that would put Sherlock Holmes and the entirety of London at risk."

John shifted under the pale-yellow sheets, muttering curses under his breath. "You _knew_ he was going to do all this," he accused. "Your boss—Mycroft. He _knew_."

She shrugged. "Of course we did. We watch men like Jim Moriarty."

"And you let it happen anyway."

"Yes."

That was all. No excuses, no explanations, no reasons. Just a simple affirmation.

He clenched his fist, then slowly and deliberately, finger by finger, relaxed it. "How," he asked, his voice quieter, "How am I alive?"

For the first time, she looked up at him, and shot him one of those meaningless smiles she seemed to have perfected. "We aren't completely inhuman, Doctor Watson. Long-term goals or no, we wouldn't have let him murder you."

"Great, that explains you—but I mean the logistics. I don't remember anything after pushing the button. What _happened_?"

She set the clipboard on top of one of the machines. "We infiltrated Moriarty's supply lines."

"You mean, you provided…"

"The "bomb" he thought he was strapping to you was actually cleverly disguised armor. Only for the torso, unfortunately, but we hoped for the best."

"But the mill…it really _did _blow up."

"Yes. We planted our own explosives, strategically placed around the building to make it seem as if, indeed, his plan had worked. A suitable corpse was procured to "prove" your death, and…" She shrugged. "Here we are."

He had worked out part of the explanation himself, actually. It was obvious that the vest strapped to his chest hadn't detonated—no one survived that. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed," he mused, half to himself. "He was using me—and you were using him."

She nodded, and examined her fingernails critically. "We couldn't let him launch an attack on the Underground, but we had to keep him from _actually _killing you. So we stacked the deck in our favor and made everyone happy—we gave him the perfect ammunition for his scheme," she said. "At any rate, we did the best we could. You're alive, aren't you?"

John let his eyes travel over his white-swathed limbs to the tubes dripping precious liquids into his bloodstream and higher still to the now-empty view of his own grave. Sherlock was long out of sight. John wondered when—if ever—he would see his friend again.

"Alive," he sighed. "Yeah…I guess I am."

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_**FIN.**_

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_**A/N: **Well, folks, this is the end. Well, sort of. As I promised, I'll be working on some oneshots showcasing the in-between lives of John and Sherlock, which will come up in "real time" until the BBC folks give me a reunion to reflect. :) The oneshots will be collectively titled "Time of Echoes" and will probably start posting (not in a particularly regular fashion) sometime in the next week. Do tell me what you think of this, and I hope "Echoes" turns out to be as fun as "Dark Mirror" has been.  
_

_Thanks to everyone who followed and/or reviewed. Keep Believing!_

_PS: My current favorite person, My-Lonely-Angel on DeviantArt, has made an absolutely amazing piece of fanart for this story. You can find it here: my-lonely-angel. deviantart #/ d5gvled. And check out her other stuff too - she's pretty amazing. :)_


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